


The Usurper

by hiwymi



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Comedy, Eliot and Nigel are twins separated at birth and they switch places that's it that's the plot, La Usurpadora AU, M/M, Romance, Some suspense and violence at the end like every good telenovela, The Secret Evil Twin Trope, oh boy let there be wacky adventures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21287000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiwymi/pseuds/hiwymi
Summary: Eliot Waugh lives a shitty life as a bartender, struggling to pay his rent in New York, with his best friend, the former socialite Margo Hanson.That is, until he meets a wealthy man who looks exactly like him called Nigel, claiming to be his twin brother separated at birth, with the irresistible offer to switch lives for one night.What could go wrong, right?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 26
Kudos: 45





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, I am LATINA, so I _am_ getting this iconic plot and turning it into a story starring our favourite dumbasses, because, it's what we _deserve_! Also, who doesn't love a good secret-evil-twin-sibling plot? Anyhow, I have over 9 episodes planned for this and the idea would not leave me even as I desperately needed to study for my exams, so now that they're over it's time to publish this mess.

New York was _weird_.

That had been his first impression of the city of dreams. It was some mystical alternate reality made of glass and concrete with thousands of cars but where everyone walked, and even the rats could mug you. Eliot had been living there for almost 5 years now, but it never quite changed.

The Cottage, for all its Instagram celebrity rep and Upper East Side cred, still worked as a portal to another dimension by nighttime. Eliot liked to think it was due to himself, and the exquisite cocktail recipes he'd brought in that were a bit too volatile for their usual customers, but that would be such a stroke of his ego that even he would have to tell himself to calm down.

It's a nice place, regardless, a bar made famous by a former socialite's imaginative improptu parties, with black walls and dimmed lighting, a tasteful amount of neons, enough mirrors to keep everyone's narcissism sated and an actual hardwood flooring.

Alas, it's not what it used to be at its peak. So maybe that's why it haunts itself from time to time and causes strange or inconvenient things to happen at Eliot's shift no less.

For instance, it was barely 9 PM, and he was already witnessing a bar fight between one of their drunken regulars and the guy dressed as a taco for the mexican restaurant across the street. Same old, same old. They were yelling something about some girl, so Eliot figured it was both not interesting _nor_ his problem.

He kept cleaning the whisky glass in his hand.

That was far from the weirdest thing he'd ever seen in his half decade there, but once in a while he'd be pleasantly surprised. Margo always told extraordinary stories that seemed too spicy to be true, and he still wished to come back to their crammed little apartment with something that'd finally make her jaw drop.

It was petty competitiveness, whatever.

So, yadda yadda yadda, be careful of what you wish for. Why would you think of such a perfect irony trap tonight, etc etc. His shift ends and he eats his shit.

His boss, a German descendant with a weird name that they all called Patrick, left early as he usually did on Mondays, leaving Eliot to close up the place.

Which he did, would do, eventually. _After_ lifting something to take home and share with Margo for their The Good Wife marathon.

Not like Patrick would know, not like the Cottage's clientele was creative enough to appreciate a humble bottle of Maraschino.

He crouches behind the bar to put away the tip jar and stands up again to look into hazel eyes.

His exact same hazel eyes.

Right above the exact same nose Eliot's been self-conscious about since he was 13. Above the same plump mouth he'd thoroughly trained to give fantastic head, and a shaved baby face that made doppelganger Eliot look at least some 10 years younger.

He stood as tall Eliot did, why wouldn't he, but with a stark difference in affluence.

The black shirt and second-hand jeans on Eliot were instead a light purple button down beneath a beige waistcoat and pressed pants on him. His overcoat yelled Burberry and a glint of a large golden watch peeked from under the hem of its sleeve.

The hair was similar to Eliot's. He'd been able to take good enough care of it that its shine and lush rivaled the one of this man, even if he'd had more access to expensive products than Eliot did. It was shorter too, a length he'd worn a lot during college, but had since let grow all the way to the base of his neck. They'd both gelled their hair up, albeit in different ways.

Which was less surprising, if the man's hair was anything like his own, then Eliot perfectly understood the struggle to keep it picture perfect.

It all made the other appear a bit more regal. Fancy and clean-cut. Eliot usually went for the decadent former-rock star look — wearing dark tones, black jackets, hair long and a carefully maintained five o'clock shadow — since he couldn't afford his actual spirit style.

Yet, deliriously, this man looks like the prototype of who he wished to be.

Eliot had kept up with more than one TV show in his life, though. It made this encounter a painful premonition of an ironic moral lesson waiting to be taught. Hard pass.

“Hello.” says this mirror image hallucination. Because he has to be.

“Hi.” Eliot answers. Because he's great at taking things like this in stride and is anything but unpolite. “We're closed.”

“Ah, yes.” the man says with a faint british lilt. “I'm aware. As a matter of fact, I was looking for you.”

“Can't imagine why.” Eliot says without missing a beat. He puts away a martini glass and figures this might as well be the strange thing that happens to him tonight. “Unless you're a sanitary inspector, I'm afraid you're gonna have to leave.”

“No, I'm not going to do that. You see, we look exactly alike.”

“Oh, you don't say.” he says, then carrying on with putting away the things at the bar, before this guy would realise how actually freaked out he was. “You got the eyeliner wrong, though.”

The double was unfazed. “Cheeky, ain't ya. Listen, we're twin brothers.”

“Ugh, how _cliché_.”

“Completely. But turns out this is very useful to me as of— _Stop_ that I'm trying to have a conversation with you— As I was _saying,_ I'm about to make you an interesting offer.”

Eliot considers what his_ long-lost twin brother_ could possibly offer him and hits the lights at the bar, then walks off towards the back door.

“I'm gonna be honest with you, _mate_, I'm planning to go pass out drunk and wake up tomorrow morning without ever being quite certain if you were a dream or not, so unless that offer involves some serious cash—”

“Is 20 thousand serious enough?” the man interrupts, leaning on his elbow on the edge of the bar in that carefree power move way Wall Street people usually have.

Eliot stops, hand frozen at the door.

Since he isn't a complete idiot, he's not gonna just stop everything and sell his ass off to the first Government secret cloning experiment that presents itself to him, but.

He has rent to pay.

“You have 20 grand to spare.” he says suspiciously, spinning around and narrowing his eyes.

“Yes, I'm quite rich.” his british version says, pompous as hell.

Eliot sighs and clasps his hands together. “Well, you should have started with _that_.”

The man smiles. It's one Eliot can tell it's rehearsed because he had also taught himself how to achieve it. Pleasant, a bit charming, a bit devious, all business.

“My name is Nigel Chapman.”

Eliot nods. “Okay, Nigel. I'm Eliot. How did you find me. Why. We're brothers..?”

With all the expected refinement and arrogance of someone sporting a three-piece to a bar and speaking with an English accent, Nigel pulls up a chair and sits down on the table immediately in front of Eliot. He retrieves a business card from an inside pocket of his trench coat — to Eliot's utter jealousy.

The card simply says “_Nigel S. Chapman. PR Consultant._” in a stylish font, a phone number in finer print on the back.

Eliot smiles dryly and that seems like it's enough for Nigel, who asks: “You were adopted, right?”

“Yes, yes, I got that part from context.” he waves off. “We're twins separated at birth. How did you find me and why are you offering me an obscene amount of cash, and what are you gonna ask to me to do for it?”

“I'm gonna ask you to pretend to be me. Obviously.” he shrugs once.

“Obviously.” Eliot mimics his shrug.

Nigel flashes a smile, one of his hands is playing with a coaster forgotten on the table. Eliot doesn't care enough to collect it later.

“What's the point of having a twin if not for that?” he lifts it up and flips it to the sides, one has the Cottage's logo, the other is blank.

“So, who are we gonna Parent-Trap?” Eliot asks, trying to make it seem like he's at least being cautious about this.

“I don't know what that means, but I need you to—”

“You don't know _Parent Trap_? The movie? British twin and American twin switch places? Lindsay Lohan?”

Nigel's face emotes nothing. “I've met her.”

“You've _met_ her?”

“Yes, but as I said...”

“And you _don't know Parent Trap_?”

“Will you _listen_?!” finally he snaps. Nigel stands to his full height, which is also Eliot's full height, so no intimidation going on there.

“Not really, this is fun.” he clicks his tongue.

His brother is a bit fussy. It's an specific type of annoying and easily-annoyed that seems unbearable to be around or to simply _be_.

Getting on his nerves is hilarious, though. Maybe Nigel is the younger sibling.

Eliot watches him take a handkerchief from inside his coat and wipe at the hand that held the coaster. God, it's so snotty, but also exactly the type of thing Eliot would do if he was rich and inclined to dramatics.

Nigel huffs once, his smile still plastered on. “There's this event tomorrow night. It's nothing really important, but my job forces me to go. I'd rather spend my night literally _anywhere else_, so, finding you, tonight, came as a blessing to me.”

“Guess it did.”

“Yes, it did. If you would be willing to do this for me, just— You know, dress like me, for a night, _wouldn't be too shabby for you_,” he motions up and down towards Eliot with his hand. Eliot lifts one eyebrow. “exchange pleasantries with insufferable sponsors, pose for a photo or another, then get back here so we can switch back and _voilà_, you get 20 thousand dollars and everybody else is none the wiser.”

Eliot leans back on the counter, framing his chin with his hand. “Seems like it's advantageous for both of us.”

“Yes.”

“Like, too good to be true.”

“It is. But it is also true. I just need to be away from the bastards for _one_ night. Eliot,” he places one hand on his shoulder. “I'm going crazy over here. Do me a _solid_.”

“A _solid_? Huh, you're really that desperate?”

“Yes, I am.” he says, emphatically.

Eliot pretends to think, and finally sighs. “_Fine_, I will do it.”

“_Thank you_.”

“Not as a favor or because we are blood relatives, I expect to be paid in full.”

Nigel smiles shark-like.

“Of course.” he takes his phone from his pocket and quickly types away. Doesn't meet Eliot's eyes for the rest of the conversation. “Meet me here, around this same time tomorrow. Wear your nicest clothes, we're gonna switch here and I don't wanna wear anything that is...” he motions at his clothes again, without removing his eyes from the screen. “_that_. It's an event at the McAllister Hotel at the 70th St. Ten o'clock. I'll give you instructions tomorrow. You have my phone number. You can text me more questions until then, but I'd prefer if you didn't.”

“Totally unreasonable.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nigel says, but his mind is already distant. Still deep in conversation with whoever he's texting, he turns his back to Eliot and waves him off. “That is all.”

“Yeah, _you're_ the one who shouldn't be here, you know.”

“Uh?” Nigel turns around, but quickly recollects himself. “Oh, and cut your hair, get a shave. I guess it goes without saying.”

When the door closes, Eliot looks back down to the business card.

Oh, Margo was gonna _love_ this.

* * *

“What the _hell_?” is what she says, inspecting Nigel's business card as if a hidden message would show up under the right light.

“I know. I was kind of hoping you'd tell me this is just a regular napkin and I'm high, but...”

“Like a _secret twin brother_? This is _so_ telenovela, I love it.” Margo smiles widely, wiggles her fists in excitement.

“I know you do.” he preens under her shining gaze.

“But you're not actually gonna do it, right? That's insane, and he's insane, and that's definitely some sort of trap.” she tosses the business card away and crosses her legs on the couch. Eliot sighs and drops on his place, right beside her. Margo reaches over and lays his head on her shoulder.

“It's 20 grand.” he pouts.

“That pays a lot of rent.” she comments, more to herself than anything. “Still, you're jumping right into this, which is frankly what _I_ would do— but it also means I have to play the role of reasonable, responsible person in this platonic slash criminal partnership.”

The answer elicits a groan from Eliot, who extends his legs and forces himself out of the couch, pacing back and forth on their matted rug. Margo is picking on her nails, which is how she pretends she isn't nervous.

Rent hadn't been a problem in the first few years they'd started living together. Him with some cash he'd gathered while working in his youth back at — _shivers_ — Indiana, and her with the last of daddy's money before she was finally cut off from the Hanson's fortune, heritage and life. It'd been their decision to never go back each to their own personal hell, but the rising rent average of a New York City apartment was surely kicking their asses everyday.

The mild drug addiction was also an issue, but they didn't plan on dealing with that any soon.

“How're you dealing with the whole finding your real life blood brother, by the way?”

He expertly curves that question. “He says I just need to go to an event tomorrow night, at the McAllister Hotel at 70th St, now, say I enlisted your help...”

“Oh, don't tempt me.”

“... Would you help me out? You know I'd never fake my identity to a bunch of strangers without you.” he kneels down on the floor and reaches out for her small, milk smooth hands.

Margo dreamily sighs. “You never did before, and I thank you for always making me a part of it.” she squeezes his hands back and rolls her eyes. “I need _more_ to get started though. I need names, who does he work with, what time is it, is it a celebrity thing or a business thing..?”

“I...” he falters as she stands up and slaps his shoulder.

“You don't know? Get up! _Ándale__!_”

“Hold up,” he surges up, suddenly an entire head taller than her. “I need to also... cut my hair.”

She gasps.

“No, I'm not asking _you_ to do it.”

She groans. “_Fine_. I'll call Pietro's.”

“I'm forever in your debt, Bambi.”

She mumbles an impatient _Of course you are_, and whips out her phone. She doesn't put up much of a fight against the idea for the rest of the evening.

Instead, they pull an all-nighter googling Nigel, his workplace and the event at the McAllister Hotel.

They find his Facebook account, his Instagram and even an old abandoned Twitter account. It's mostly professional stuff, mechanically void of genuinity, and ostentatious photos.

They find a few of his friends from tagged photos, but since they don't seem to mix with his coworker circle, they are promptly ignored in favor of who they figured were his assistants (_he needs 3 of them?_), someone they recognised as the target of many old shady subtweets called Todd, and his boss and owner of one of the bigger shares of the agency he worked with, Irene McAllister.

Makes sense.

The next day, after one Venti frapuccino and iced tea for each, they passed by Margo's second favourite hair salon (she couldn't go back to her first choice after the Tequila Worm Scandal of 2013) and more or less managed to nail Nigel's hair, according to pictures and Eliot's memory of the prior night.

He dresses up nicely, as per Nigel's orders. Patrick even comments on it, asking him if he's _going out after work?_ with a furrowed brow. Which was understandable, because his shift on Tuesdays ended at midnight and what kind of degenerate goes out at that time on a Tuesday? _Ha._

Anyhow. At almost 11 PM, Nigel meets him up in the bathroom, flying by in a rush.

“What's this? The best you've got? Ugh, fine, it will have to do.” he twitches his nose in disgust and shoulders his suit jacket off.

Eliot notices that Nigel embarrassedly squirm while undressing in front of him, despite their physical similarities, and takes a mental note that his brother is unsurprisingly prudish.

“My shift ends in an hour still. Don't cause any trouble, just make an excuse to get out.” Eliot says, removing most of his rings and handing them over.

Nigel snickers. “Don't worry about that.” by then he's already buttoning up Eliot's shirt. “I'm acceptably late for the event, so everyone should have already arrived when you get there.”

“_Right, right._” Eliot says, mimicking the cadence of Nigel's accent.

Nigel stops and shushes him with his hand like a maestro would. “_No_, it's _right_.” he corrects. “_Ri—gh-T._ Pronounce your bloody T's.”

“Jesus. _Right_.”

He takes a cigarette from the box he'd hidden behind a window frame, along with a matchbox that he doesn't have the time to use since Nigel swipes the cigarettes right off his hand.

“_Don't smoke_. God, it's such a filthy habit.” he assertively throws it in the garbage, much to Eliot's frustration. “You're not going in there smelling like smoke. I don't smoke.”

“Fuck! And you're gonna throw it away? It's not even yours.”

“Your lungs will thank me someday.” he adjusts Eliot's nicest tie around his neck and checks himself on the mirror. Once, twice. Then looks at Eliot's reflection. “The hair's a tad too long.”

“Who's gonna notice that?”

“_I don't know_,” he answers in a crude mockery of an American accent. “_uuh_, a bunch of people.”

Eliot shushes him just like Nigel had previously done. “It's _I don't know_, you're gonna make it sound like there's a fucking R in there like a good yankee, ok?”

Nigel scoffs and grabs his cellphone from the bathroom sink.

“I'm not going to give you my phone. It's an iPhone XR and I don't use Android.”

Eliot lifts up his own phone. “I'm not using an Android either.”

“I don't use second-hand.” he doesn't look at Eliot, engrossed in a text message conversation already. “I told everyone I lost mine and that I'm using another one temporarily, if anyone asks about it, that's what you're going to say.”

“Okie dokie.”

Nigel stops. Slowly he lowers his phone and turns back to Eliot.

“Don't worry, I'm not gonna say that in front of anybody.”

Nigel narrows his eyes, but returns to his phone screen. “My driver is outside. He already knows the way, you can go now.”

“Jeesh.” Eliot rolls his eyes and wraps Nigel's purple scarf around his neck. “Buh-bye, your highness.”

The door closes behind him with a thud. Nigel lifts his head up and grins.

“Oh, Eliot, you _idiot_.”

* * *

There's a man dressed in a black suit waiting for him outside of a limo, just as promised. He sees Eliot, assumes he is Nigel and opens the back door for him.

There's a brief moment of relief as he gets confirmation that he's passable enough as Nigel that is squashed as soon as he gets inside the car.

When he sees the most beautiful man he's ever laid eyes on in his entire life.

On the other side of the seat, there's this guy, full attention to his cellphone, with the profile of an angel, just casually _being _around Eliot like this is just something someone who looks like him is allowed to do.

It takes him a second or two, but he finally notices Eliot staring and turns his big, beamy brown eyes right to him.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Eliot replies in a daze.

In the back of his mind he worries if he'd gotten the accent right. If the two-letter greeting should have sounded longer and british. _Do English people say Hi? _Can't remember. Can't be sure. Figures he should have said _hello_ instead.

“Did you find your phone?” the guy in the car asks, his voice is soft and a little hoarse, a tell-tale sign of timidness.

Eliot doesn't find his own voice to reply, he just seizes the opportunity to take in the rest of his face. The angular jaw, the pretty nose and his defined cupid's bow.

It goes on for too long. The driver had already gone and sat behind the wheel, Eliot's door is still opened, his body half out of the car.

The guy makes a slightly impatient, slightly concerned expression and motions with his head like _So? a_nd it finally snaps Eliot awake.

“No! No, I didn't.” he fully sits inside and closes the door with a bit too much force. “It's not there, I'm using this one instead.” he brandishes his own phone into view as he repeats the answer Nigel provided him.

The car engine finally roars to life and he absentmindedly remembers his seatbelt when they drive off.

It's not something he usually does. He mostly walks, to be honest, but Nigel seems like the type of person who would fuss over seatbelts. The guy next to him doesn't point this out as weird or anything, just nods and looks back down to his phone.

Eliot doesn't recognise him.

Nigel didn't say anything about him.

He doesn't know his name_._

All he knows is that this guy is pretty and right next to him and making Eliot's stomach churn with the fear of getting caught and that flitting feeling of being around a pretty boy.

Margo and him had gone over Nigel's social circles last night, but he can't remember anyone who could be him.

Is he one of his assistants? Is that why he's sitting with him on the car? He doesn't think so. There were three of them and none looked like _this_. So?

He buries his face in his own phone and quickly types a message to Margo. Then, remembers he has Nigel's contact, erases his message and decides to confront him instead.

**whos the guy in the car??**

**did u forget to mention him???**

The reply comes a few unbearable minutes later.

_that's my boyfriend quentin_

_dont worry about him_

**what**

**wtf do i tell him?????**

**does he KNOW???**

_he keeps to himself you don't need to talk to him_

_no he doesn't_

_but it's fine_

**how is ANY OF THIS FINE!!!**

_keep it together_

_if he asks anything just nod along_

_i will deal with it later_

**what r u even doing??**

_this isn't of your concern_

_just do what you agreed_

Eliot sends a few more messages, but Nigel doesn't bother to even read them. _Welp, fuck._

He looks at the guy, Quentin, Nigel's beautiful _beautiful_ boyfriend, clueless to their entire scheme and wonders if he should break the silence to say anything.

Quentin is unbothered by the quietude. He's scrolling down on a social media of sorts and Eliot wonders how the hell did they miss him. He's _certain _he'd remember if his brother had mentioned having a _boyfriend_ anywhere online.

It couldn't be a secret thing if he was bringing him over to work events in fancy hotels where photographers and journalists would be waiting.

Maybe it was a new thing? But even then why abandon him with his recently discovered twin to go fuck off in the middle of the night at god knows where? What if Eliot was a lunatic? Why trust your boyfriend's safety on a stranger like that?

Eliot steals a sneaky glance at him. He's still on his phone, the faint light of the screen illuminating his face.

Quentin was gorgeous. He had pretty, silky light brown hair that fell on the length of his sharp jaw. His face was boyish and youthful, but he had the thick arms and hands of a man.

Eliot had never found himself specifically attracted to brown eyes, but his' were so dark, so deep, like they hid a distant and ever present sorrow.

He has this strange urge to reach out his hand and put his long fringe behind his ear. Wants to see what it looks like, thinks he deserves only the softest, most feather light of touches.

He's wearing black pants and a suit, his button-down underneath is a green so light it almost look white. He has a cream scarf draped over his shoulder, more of an aesthetic decision rather than practical, but it also means Eliot can see his neck and Adam's apple undeterred.

Unlike Quentin, Eliot doesn't particularly deal with long stretches of silence well. He likes talking, dazzling and making an impression.

Under different circumstances, had he met Quentin in a bar or a club or, fuck, wherever Quentin has been hiding out during Eliot's whole life, he's sure he would already have him pinned against a wall, tongue down his throat.

Alas, it's not meant to be.

Besides, relationships weren't frankly his _forte_ anyway. If this fantasy played out truthfully, once Eliot had been done with Quentin for the evening, he'd not be calling him the following night. At least with Nigel the boy's being dicked down on the regular.

The rationalizing grounds him. Reminds him there are other pretty boys in the world and this is just his commitment anxiety flaring up at unexpectedly having to play the boyfriend role for one night.

Floor under his feet. He breathes in, finally sick of the cloud of awkward hanging between them.

“You look nice.” his voice is hesitant.

Quentin's face closes up, he inhales through his nose irritably. “I didn't have anything else on the go. You're not my mom, you don't decide what I wear.”

Eliot's head swirls with the apparent _faux pas _and he raises his hands placatingly.

“No, no, I was complimenting you, I liked it,” but his words fail at convincing, and Quentin throws him a quick glare before looking back to his phone.

“_Yeah_,” he snorts sarcastically. “I heard you back at the apartment.”

_Great, they had a fight and now I have to pick up the pieces._

If Eliot needed something to shut up, this did the trick. He sunk into his seat and messaged Margo for the rest of the way.

She was at work at the moment and couldn't reply, but she would later.

* * *

  
All of the McAllister Hotels are built in the same way, standardization is important for the brand, blah blah.

Eliot and Margo couldn't find pictures of the insides of the one on 70th St., but the standard architecture meant that pictures from any other McAllister Hotel would do.

It still didn't prepare him for the _wow_ factor that followed.

The McAllister Hotel was 30 stories high in each of its two buildings, divided by a garden decorated with a pebble pathway, a large stone fountain and statues of old McAllister family patriarchs. A generational egocentrism, but still impressive.

Eliot wondered if this was Nigel's boss' event or if whoever invited her was really favored by the family.

There were security guards everywhere, and the parking lot had been mostly reserved for the event's guests. He was expecting to be dropped off at the hotel's entrance, but they actually parked inside.

Their driver opened his door with a flourish. Quentin left on his own through the other side and walked up all the way to him before stopping and looking down at his phone again.

He really _did_ keep to himself. Huh. If Eliot let him, he'd probably stay the whole night with his nose stuck on a screen.

Not that he minds. He doesn't really know him well nor wants to try to find out what type of relationship he and his brother had. All he needed was someone to make him company as he finally realised pretending to be someone else with minimal information is hard and this was bad idea after all.

Ever the tactile person, then, Eliot hooks his arm through Quentin's, without giving the gesture much thought. It's how he sought out comfort with Margo in unsafe, uncertain situations, without letting people know his confidence was faltering.

It was also, seemingly, something Nigel did _not_ often do with his boyfriend, because Quentin jolts in surprise and looks up at him like he'd grown a second head.

But since Eliot's talent had always been to gracefully _wing it_, he doesn't pull away nor act like anything is out of the ordinary.

“All good?” he asks cheery, looking down into Quentin's confused blinky eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, it's all good.” he says a bit softer and looks away. Eliot feels, very faintly, as Quentin squeezes his arm and leans closer into the touch.

Soft and content like a kitten.

_My God, I'm gonna die._

He shakes aside this weird feeling that just erupted from his chest — one which feels too much like _fondness_ for this virtual stranger — and walks them up to the elevator where the other guests wait around.

Quentin is still warm at his side, his cheek rests casually on Eliot's bicep, almost like he's just peeking at his surroundings from the safety of Eliot's body.

_My God, I'm going to _die_._

The event is at a grand salon and despite it having started an hour ago, there were still guests pouring in.

A few people greet him at the door and then it never quite stops. A flurry of mostly white, lavishly dressed rich people come to shake his hand and say hello, some even eye him expectantly as if waiting for him to burst into a speech.

Eliot wasn't usually shy, but tonight he doesn't feel very chatty.

He's gracious enough with his excuses, but keeps his grip on Quentin's arm _tight_. It's only after twenty minutes that Quentin realises why “Nigel” is acting so off.

“Hey, are you nervous?” his voice is whisper soft, and he places one hand over Eliot's.

“Me? Why?”

“You said you wanted me to step back and let you make connections, but you didn't let go of me yet.” his fingers brush over Eliot's in a comforting gesture.

Eliot doesn't want to test the limits of his bullshitting skill, but he's cornered. His face morphs into a confident mask.

“Will you be alright on your own?”

Quentin gapes at the question. “Me? Uh, yeah, yeah. I'll be fine.”

Eliot doesn't understand his reaction, but lets go of him anyway. He squeezes Quentin's hand briefly as a thank you for the quiet support then disappears into the crowd.

As he expected, it doesn't take long until someone finds him to strike conversation. He learns to dread the sight of them before they even open their mouths.

“So I told Megan that 'No' and she could _not _keep her 'friend' in my house. Frankly, teenagers these days are hopeless, the scandal! What would the tabloids say?”

“I can't wait for this activism trend to die off.”

“Preach!”

Eliot watches the exchange with impassive eyes. He's not exactly sure when the conversation had shifted from _Have you spoken to Frank yet? _to _We are huge racists who believe there are illegal human beings_, but that's where they were at now.

“I'm sorry,” he says trying to cut through their nonsense without upsetting them. “Megan's your daughter, right?”

“Yes, my youngest. She's doing fairly well on her new Disney Channel TV show. Irene was just telling me that if she finishes another season we'll be having movie offers very soon!”

_Ah, yes._ Megan Whats-Her-Face was connected to Irene McAllister's agency, Nigel's workplace, and those are the girl's loaded parents, _got it._

Eliot smiles and nods along.

“I can totally see her on a Hallmark movie!” this blonde woman with huge pearl earrings says.

“Oh, Deandra, you're completely right! Speaking of Marks, where's your husband?” Megan's mother asks.

“Oh, he's down with the flu. I told him I hate it when he travels to those African continents, but he doesn't listen! At least he promised me he'd bring home an antilope head for our living room to make up for it.”

“Such a shame, I was hoping to continue our discussion from yesterday. I'm afraid his commie brother is getting to him.” someone's greying husband says.

“Oh, you _men_ and your politics!” a brunette next to WhoIsThis cackles. “Leave us ladies to gossip alone, then.”

When she says that, she lands one orange-tanned hand over Eliot's arm.

“Nigel! Please tell me you brought that adorable little date of yours. What's his name?” she snaps her fingers as she tries to remember.

Eliot doesn't want to tell her.

He smiles, but there's some aggression underneath it. “Why?”

“Oh, we wanted your opinion on something. Jocelyn keeps bragging on and on about those hot neighbors of hers that are always shirtless. She insists they're in love with her, but I have a very well-tuned gaydar!" she finished with a shrill laughter, sinking her nails on his arm when he unconsciously tries to pull away.

Another woman puts a napkin in front of her lips like she's about to relay some great gossip. “It's because they live next door, they can't run away!” they laugh, Eliot's smile strains.

“Such a waste, though!” a middle-aged one says. “But I guess it leaves more for you, huh, Nigel?”

“Kate, I thought the same thing when I met him! So tall and handsome and the _accent_! _Tsk. _A shame...” this one is around her twenties.

“Oh, Nigel, I think it's so sweet that you live with that boy of yours. Which one of you cooks?”

“_I _don't get it.” a man slightly older than Eliot, but already balding complains with a sour face.

“Fred!”

“No! I still don't understand why you ended things with your hot ex-girlfriend for— some _guy_.”

The woman next to him slaps his arm. “Don't mind Alfred, sweetie, we're perfectly okay with it. Besides, it's ok if you change your mind later on.” Alfred's wife waves off with a soulessly wide smile.

Jesus, no wonder Nigel wanted out of this.

He accepts a glass of champagne from a waiter and downs it in one go. Before Sally or Sandra can pull him back in for whatever Irene suggested she did with her hair, Eliot exits stage left.

He finds Quentin standing by a window, on his phone, but also nursing a glass of red wine on one hand.

“Quentin.” Eliot says, startling him a bit. “Sorry, I was looking for you, I was afraid you'd got lost.”

Quentin shrugs and smiles a bit.

“I know the protocol by now, don't worry.”

“Protocol?”

“Yeah, I stay still in the corner and you find me later.” Quentin shrugs and takes a sip of wine.

Eliot tries to think about the connotations of that for a bit, but the animal part of his brain just wants Quentin to cling on to his arm again.

“Right, how about I stay here with you instead. We could sit somewhere too, my feet are killing me.”

Quentin laughs. It's a wonderful sound.

“Don't you need to socialize? I told you we should've come in just later.”

Eliot wasn't there for that conversation, but he throws his head back and groans like he was. “You're right.”

“I am?” Quentin perks up. “Are you feeling okay?”

Apparently not. He needs to dial up the conceited asshole to play Nigel.

“I was being sarcastic.” he pretends to dust a lint off his suit jacket and wraps his arm back around Quentin's. “Obviously.”

Quentin doesn't look at him like he's offended, more like he's amused.

He opens his pretty, pink little mouth to speak, but it's not his honey-sweet voice that sounds out.

“Nigel!” a girl Eliot vaguely recognises as a secondary actress from a Showtime series grabs for his wrist. “Thank _God_, I've been meaning to talk to you all week. I need you to meet up with Jackie before I go back to— Who's this?” she looks at Quentin, then at their linked arms and gasps in delight.

“This is my boyfriend, Quentin.” is all Eliot says, because it was all Nigel had given him and he doesn't know Quentin's last name.

“Hi!” she smiles widely. “Shit, wait, Charlton mentioned you. You're a professor, right?”

“Yeah, I, uhm, teach English Lit.”

_Huh_, the more you know.

“Oh, I miss college so much! I almost took Literature, you know, but my bitch mother nagged at me until I chose Economics instead. Well, fuck her, she's dead now and I'm famous!”

Quentin looks as dumbfounded as Eliot feels, and he's not even that good at recovering from it, he just blinks and goes: “Wow, uhm, guess you stuck it to her?”

“Totally. Where do you teach?”

“Uhm, at BU? Brakebills.”

“Oh!” she says, the mood shifts. Eliot isn't sure why, he never went to college. “That's a small one, but I, heard the campus is nice.”

“Yeah, I, I'm still completing my masters so, it's good. The hours are nice.”

“Hm.” she purses her lips. “You know, my dad knows the dean of NYU, if you ever want to...”

“Oh, no, I don't... Need to? I chose BU, I like it there.”

“Well, the pay must suck.”

Quentin forces a toothless smile and nods briskly.

“I guess it's good Nigel's loaded, huh?” she jokes, but there's a judgy undertone in her voice.

She throws Eliot this look that's supposed to be a private conversation where she says through her eyes that _he's a total gold-digger, right?_ And Eliot—better yet, _Nigel_ answers with a shrug and a _well, he's pretty, what can I do?_

She's not exactly subtle with it either, Quentin looks like he's trying to find a hole to fit his head into. And yes, maybe Eliot has known him for all of a day, but if anyone tries to mess with this sweet, shy little geek, he'll have to dropkick a bitch.

“I think choice is more important in those cases. I'm sure your father knows a lot of university deans. It makes your choice very easy, doesn't it?”

She flinches, but keeps her smile on like a champ, albeit a bit confusedly, but she's apparently not the type to get into cat fights.

“I'm taking a break off of uni, actually.” she shrugs. “I'm tryna focus on my acting career. I'm auditioning for a role in the other, newer Vampire Diaries spin-off.”

“Oh, good luck. And I'll get in touch with Jackie, don't worry.”

She smiles, poised. “Get on to it!” and then laughs, playfully. Her eyes are ticking back and forth between them, the eyes of someone who didn't expect to be bitten by an obedient dog. “I gotta run, boys, see you later.” blowing one kiss, she spins around and vanishes.

“What a mess.” Eliot grumbles.

He turns to look at Quentin, who's staring at Eliot with a perplexed expression.

“Did you... uhm, accuse her dad of committing college admission fraud?”

“Sweetheart,” he says, mostly because the pet name just sounds better in a british accent. “he probably _did_.” and squeezes Quentin's hand. Quentin still stares at him half concerned, half in wonder. “These people are awful. Did they _all _have to be republicans?”

Quentin snorts. “They're _your_ friends. You're the one who decided to surround yourself with them.”

“And you _let_ me?”

A little confused, Quentin tilts his head with the tiniest smile. “I thought you didn't care about my opinion?”

Eliot can't hide his shock. “Of course I care about what you think.”

Whether that was the right thing to say is undetermined. Quentin gets confused and suddenly silent. Maybe that's not the type of thing Nigel would normally say, or even say at all, but it was definitely something Quentin needed to hear, so Eliot doesn't regret saying it.

He thinks, privately, that it's the kind of reassurance he'd give to his own boyfriend. If he ever wanted one, that is.

“Did you,” Quentin's eyes narrow. “did you change your hair?”

Panic. “No? No.” his hand flies over to his hair, he smooths it down and curses Pietro and his own faulty memory. “Why?”

Quentin searches his face for a bit. Then gives in. “Nothing.”

Eliot internally sighs in relief.

* * *

Deal is, he's not _completely_ lost.

Since he and Margo had studied enough about the event and the people in atendance the prior night, he has more or less of an idea why these people are there (it's money, this was definitely a sponsorship type of event, filled with magnates, minor celebrities with rich daddies and Instagram influencers).

It's just that, after properly assessing the entire situation, he figures that Quentin is the most interesting person in the room so he decides to strike conversation with him instead.

Also, he has no patience with republicans. Sue him.

What he doesn't get is why Quentin seems so surprised by all the attention he's being given. When prompted to, he will talk a lot. Shed out his shyness and ramble on and on about a topic he's interested in.

Normally, Eliot doesn't like listening to someone who can't keep track of his own thoughts, but Quentin is so _passionate_ about the things he's talking about that it's impossibly enrapturing.

He listens to him as he goes from _Mary Shelley invented the Science Fiction genre and I can prove it_ to the exciting tale of last week, when one of his students brought a baby duckling to class, lost it, and now Brakebills' faculty has been hearing Ricardo's quacks echoing through the walls for days.

It's no biggie. He's being nice to him _and_, by extension, to his brother as well. Giving his boy some harmless flirting and keeping him happy so when Nigel comes back he can reap all the rewards.

Let no one say Eliot is not altruistic.

Of course, he's not planning to go any further than that. It would be extra creepy if he made a serious move on his brother's boyfriend. Especially since said boyfriend had no idea he was chatting with a complete stranger. He just... wants him to be happy.

And happy Quentin seems. He'd loosened up sometime along the night and started talking enthusiastically, unashamed of anyone who might've tried to overhear. At one high point, when he'd gotten a few glasses of wine in him, he'd started providing gossip on the people around them.

“That guy... uhm, Greg, he was Irene's former assistant, you know that? You know that.” No, Eliot did not know that. “I talked to him once, I think he smuggles fairy dust from Paraguay. And Ms. Fey fired him and _that's_ why Irene hates her.”

“Is that so?” he smiles gently. Quentin is happy drunk and leaning on to his arm. Eliot could be struck dead by lightning here, he wouldn't give a shit.

“Eh, I guess? There's probably more, Fray always say a new reason why. So I dunno.” he shrugs and nuzzles Eliot's shoulder.

Right as he's about to ask more about Irene and Ms. Fey, whoever she is, a slim guy around their age with curly black hair approaches the table looking frantic.

“Nigel! I was looking all over for you.”

Eliot stares at him, recognising him as one of Nigel's coworkers, but not remembering his name. He opens his mouth to wing it, but like a savior angel, Quentin beats him to it.

“Hey, Todd.”

Ah, _Todd_.

“What is it?” Eliot asks, disentangling Quentin from himself with only mild protest.

“What... What is it? The speech!” Eliot blinks. “The speech you're supposed to give? The one you rehearsed for 5 hours yesterday? The speech? Ms. McAllister assigned to us?” his voices becomes more and more frenetic as he speaks, he starts making aborted jumps, his skeleton trying to break out of his skin.

Eliot doesn't know any speech.

Nigel never mentioned it.

As a matter of fact, he specifically said all he needed to do was to smile and nod along all night.

As a matter of fact, all Eliot agreed to do was to smile and nod along all night, what in the _fuck_ is he supposed to do now?

“Yes, I remember.”

“Then let's go!” Todd grabs his arm to pull him up, but flinches and looks back at Eliot horrified. “I'm sorry, no touching, _so _sorry.”

What, did Nigel put the fear of God into his heart?

“I'll consider your apology.” he says snottily, like Nigel would, and struts in the direction Todd was leading him towards.

Quentin, having learned he was there as Eliot's comfort blanket that night, readily stands up and catches up to them. He doesn't lace their arms together, a pity, but wraps his hand around Eliot's fingers.

He's definitely someone's dream guy. Somewhere. No, not Eliot's, certainly not Eliot's, but God was he a dream.

“I assume there's no cheat cards with this speech lying around?” he keeps his tone light, like he could be joking and Todd wouldn't be able to tell.

Todd just eyes him oddly. “No..? You said you didn't need it because you have pho—”

“Photographic memory, yes.” Eliot supplies.

Something else he shared with his brother, although he guessed that made some sense. Eliot hadn't had to read a large body of text more than twice to perfectly recall it for all of elementary and high school. Clearly that was the same for Nigel too.

“Does it have to be _now_?” he puts his clenched fists on his hips. Nerves racking out of him.

“Uh, yeah?” Todd scoffs out a laugh. “When, how..? It's right on time, didn't you spend all night rubbing elbows with Ms. McAllister's sponsors?” _Uh, about that..._ “Isn't the plan to _wow_ them with the grand speech at the end?”

“Plans can change.”

“Uh, ha, but they don't!”

“They _do_.”

“Not tonight, they _can't_!” Todd is jittering like crazy. Quentin is watching him with something akin to pity.

“Isn't it a bit too early 2000's? Who even makes speeches anymore?”

“Uhm, Ms. McAllister, right after yours?” Todd clasps his hands together, wrings them on each other in a self-soothing manner.

Eliot smiles, panic rising. On his side, he feels a tug on his sleeve.

“You and Todd rehearsed it yesterday, why don't you guys do it again to refresh your memory.”

Todd knows the speech? Why can't _Todd_ give the speech?

“Actually, Todd, why don't _you_ give the speech?”

Todd blinks in surprise. “What? Who? Me?”

“Yes, you.” he pats his shoulders. “You know it top to bottom, you'll do great, I'm sure.”

Todd blinks profusely. “Uh, I, I, yeah, I, yeah I could. I could, I _can_!”

“Yes, you can!”

“I _can_! I— Wow, thanks. You sure? You're not... joking, right? You, erhm, uh...”

“No, Todd, I'm not taking the piss out of you.”

“Hah, oh my God. This is happening. Holy shit.” he turns around, mumbling to himself. “Ok, man, you can do it. Nigel thinks you're ready, you're totally gonna nail this.” he turns back to Eliot and Quentin. “Thanks, man. Sir. I mean, I promise I won't disappoint you.”

Eliot already regrets this, but, hey, it's not his job, this will be Nigel's problem tomorrow.

“Let's not go that far.”

“Right. Right. Stay humble. Good advice. Oof. Ok, ok, I'mma go, wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” Quentin says gently.

“Go Todd!” Todd says, then has the decency to be ashamed and leave.

“I really set him up to crash and burn, didn't I?”

“Yeah.” Quentin says, sizing him with his eyes again. Eliot feels cold sweat down his temples. “I gotta say, Nigel, I'm... surprised? And a little proud of you. I'd never imagine you giving up the spotlight... for _Todd_ of all people. On Earth. Ever.”

“Neither have I!” then he shrugs nonchalantly. “I've decided to throw him a bone.”

Quentin watches him silently. “Sure.” he whispers.

“Why don't we...” Eliot grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers. Quentin's eyes go from suspicious to dazed in a second. “Go get some punch, spike it and then watch this trainwreck speech from afar where the debris won't hit us?”

Quentin looks at him, looks down at their hands, then smiles pleased and nods.

God, adorable.

The speech goes well, thankfully. Eliot would feel at least a little bad if Todd made a complete utter fool of himself. Or, even more than he already did. He has his few ticks and low moments, sure, it's a _forty-five minutes_ speech after all.

Jesus, Nigel's gotta be in love with the sound of his own voice.

But all in all, it proceeds mostly smoothly and Irene McAllister takes the stage right after him.

Eliot wasn't paying much attention to it. If quizzed, he wouldn't be able to tell a word of what Todd had just said, other than maybe _synergy_, which he noted was used incorrectly on the context of whatever metaphor Todd tried to make, but then again, he wasn't paying attention to the metaphor either, so what does he know.

Throughout the speech, Quentin and him had taken to whispering about Todd's little blunders, and it was just too nice to get along with someone this well that he doesn't feels anxious about this plan anymore.

“Hmm.” Quentin hums on his side, waving an empty cup in front of Eliot's face. “Punch.” he orders, entirely unimposing.

“Alright, alright.” he fights the urge to fondly kiss the top of his head. Reminds himself this isn't Margo and that he's never going to see him again after the event's over. “You stay there.”

Quentin nods and _hmm-hmphs_, buzzed and completely relaxed from the alcohol.

Maybe he'd kiss the top of his head _once_.

Since Irene is still giving her speech, most of the guests are sat on the round tables, away from the large one with the foods and drinks, and Eliot gets a moment alone for the first time that night.

It doesn't last.

“_Psst._” he hears as he reaches for the punch. It's from a girl, partially concealed by a wall. When Eliot looks at her she waves him over quickly. “_Come_. _On_.” she mouths.

Alright. That's normal.

He throws a glance back and then walks up towards the wall, finding an empty hallway. _Great, she's a ghost_.

Eliot is about to turn around to tell Quentin that the place is haunted when a small fist clutches the front of his shirt and pulls him into the closest room. His back hits the wall.

A pair of feminine lips land on his.

_Uhhh_...?!

He pushes the girl off him. She blinks her green eyes, but doesn't seem much fazed, only paws at his shoulders some more and tries to kiss up his neck.

“I was waiting for this all night! You're playing hard to get s—”

“Stop. Stop! What are you doing?!” Eliot has to physically hold her still.

The woman's smile falters. She looks down to his hands, holding her back by the forearms, and wrings her wrists as if it would set her free. She lets out a confused, chopped laugh and shakes her cascade of brown hair.

“Nigel? Come on.”

He knows this woman? _Of course_ he knows this woman.

“Stop that. I'm not. I'm.” he lets her go and steps away. “I'm gonna go back to the party and pretend this didn't happen.” he says slowly and immediately looks out the door, checking for any passerby.

“No! No, sorry. You haven't texted me all night. I missed you.” the woman says, rubbing one of her pale little hands over Eliot's arm.

“I'm... I'm here with my boyfriend, are you out of your mind?”

She laughs. “It's not like he hasn't been in the same place as _us_ before, baby.”

Eliot shivers. Wow. Nigel, the jackass.

“What if someone sees us?” he tries, maybe if he appeals to this woman's common sense she'd at the very least leave him alone, but the girl is insistent.

“So _what_?” she snaps, half wounded. “Honestly, this whole thing has gone on long enough!” her voice is trembly, like assertiveness doesn't come naturally to her. “You said you were gonna break with him weeks ago.”

My _God_, Nigel, you _asshole_.

“Did I say that? When did I say that?”

Her eyes become teary, she searches something on his eyes, but finds nothing. “You said it!” she hits one fist on his chest, it's barely strong enough to hurt. “This isn't funny! You said he was good publicity!” she lands another small fist on his shoulder, but he barely budges. “You promised me! You promised me!”

Who is this?!

“Hey, hey.” he holds her still again. She's stopped sniffing and her jaw shuts in a pout. “Look, can we, talk later? Not now, this is... This is not a good time for you to be,” he looks her up and down, her make-up is smudged. “throwing yourself at me. Eh.” he doesn't now her name. Better not to try to find out.

“If this is one of your little games, I'm not liking it. You already cancelled our lunch at the club next week. Then you don't text me for days, gives me an invite to this event and I. I! What's, what was I supposed to assume?”

No idea. Eliot wouldn't be able to even take a guess, honestly.

“Not, not this. Listen, later, ok? I'll text you later. I gotta, I've gotta run.”

He starts to leave but she holds on to the lapel of his jacket. “No, Nigel. What did I do?” she asks desperately. “Please, just tell me what I said. I'm sorry for tonight, I'm gonna make it up to you.”

“_Later_. Ok?” he gives her a tight lipped smile and struts off.

Still, he can hear her high heels skipping behind him. He looks back, but she'd gotten the message, and he sees her leaf-green dress and long brown hair disappearing towards the tables.

Nigel, you _fucking_ dipshit.

Quentin spots him approaching and Eliot stops.

My God. Nigel is cheating on him. With that lady, whoever she is. And he threw Eliot in here to deal with it for him? Or at least, knowingly threw him in here? Knowing about this?

_No_. No, this is not worth it.

This is not his problem. Not anymore.

He beelines away from the tables and walks out from one of the glass doors into the garden. He whips out his phone and texts many furious messages to his shitty ass brother.

Nigel, expectedly, doesn't even read his messages.

**just answer u fucking ass**

**y the fuck did u blindside me like this**

**u missed out A LOT OF FUCKING DETAILS**

**u better pay me or i s2g**

**im serious im ditching**

**i dont even fucking care**

**if u dont answer i might even make a scene idc**

**NIGEL**

**NIGEL ANSWER UR GODDAMN PHONE**

“Nigel?” Quentin asks softly.

Eliot's head snaps back to him. He has this concerned expression tainting his face. It almost makes Eliot want to reach out and smooth out the creases in his forehead.

Almost.

“Is everything ok?” he joins his hands and approaches cautiously.

_No, Quentin, nothing's ok. Your boyfriend is a cheating, lying piece of shit who hooked me up in this mess. By the way, I'm not your boyfriend, I'm his long lost twin brother, hi._

Instead, he answers. “Yes. Yes, everything's fine.” he looks at his phone. Nigel hasn't read the messages yet. Probably had his phone on silent. “I'm just. I'm not feeling well, can we go?”

Quentin rushes to his side, puts those caring hands on Eliot's hips.

“What's wrong? What are you feeling?” his eyes look up at him, worried and dark, and so _so_ deep. Staring right into them like this, they are so morose. It makes some sense now.

“I just want to go.”

“Ok, ok. We can go, I'm gonna text Josh.” he places one hand on the low of Eliot's back and guides him towards the parking lot. Eliot sighs in relief, he was worried he'd have to go back through the salon and say goodbye to those godawful people.

But when he gets inside the car, Quentin immediately tells their driver, Josh: “Take us home.”

Which, huh.

That's _Nigel_'s home.

He eyes Quentin and then the back of Josh's head nervously. _Shit_. How does he get out of this one? He doesn't know where he's supposed to meet Nigel, they were supposed to determine that _later_.

But Nigel won't answer his fucking phone.

“Hey, does your head hurt?” Quentin asks, scooting closer to his side and fussing all over Eliot.

It's endearing, but not very helpful right now.

“I'm good, I'm good, sweetheart.” he holds Quentin's hands, just so they'll stop wandering all over him. “I just, I just need to get home, I'll get better.”

“But what happened, you've been weird all night..?”

“I don't know, I just need to lie down, alright?”

“You're sure? Do want my anxiolytics?”

_Quentin takes anxiety meds? Nigel, you fucking monster._

“No, no.” he takes Quentin's hands and brings them to his lips. It finally silences him, but he still looks up at Eliot with this shining, worried stare. “Don't worry about me. I'm gonna sleep it off and feel better.”

“Ok.” Quentin whispers and twines their fingers together.

Oh, no, pretty boy don't do that.

“I'll, uhm, I can make you some tea when we get home. If you want.” he offers softly, gently. Eliot thinks he's the most precious person on Earth.

He doesn't drink tea that doesn't come from a Starbucks cup, but why not. “Thank you. I'd love that.”

Quentin smiles, but it looks more concerned than anything.

* * *

Eliot only notices he's been failing to pay attention to the where the car was taking him when they finally stop. He has no idea which street is this, and, actually, now that he thinks about it, he doesn't have any cash on him to go back to his apartment anyway.

He left his wallet on the back pocket of his pants. The ones _Nigel_ was wearing right now.

_Fuck._

“Don't worry about your boss, she already works you to death. She can't be mad at you for feeling sick and needing to leave early.” Quentin assures him, opening the door for Eliot. He hadn't noticed he'd gotten out of the car already.

“I'm not. I'm not worried about that.” he says and walks out. Quentin makes a gesture at Josh, who takes off with the car.

Quentin starts walking towards their building's entrance hall. “Come on.” he says and almost makes to go fetch Eliot himself, but his feet remember how to move and he joins him on the elevator.

He doesn't know their floor. Quentin presses the button number 23.

Eliot's reflection looks sickly pale. It reminds him of Nigel, terrifyingly. A passing thought wonders if he'll be too traumatized to look into mirrors after this, but that thought alone is more terrifying than anything else.

He runs his hands through his hair and avoids Quentin's eyes. He'd been watching Eliot with a frown, biting his lip and looking down like he'd been scolded.

Eliot doesn't know what to do. It's not Quentin's fault, but he doesn't know how to comfort him, he _doesn't know him_, nor does he have any idea what excuse he should make up for any of this behavior when they _do_ get to their floor.

The door opens directly to their apartment's hall. It has a tall white ceiling and it's mostly hardwood floorings, a few wood walls with door frames painted white, decorated by a modern metal low-hanging light and a minimalistic table with a vase on it. He's hasn't even gone in yet, but it feels immense already.

_They live this fancy, I guess._

Quentin reaches for his arm, then gives up midway. He gets inside and disappears behind a wall on the right.

Eliot stays behind. He doesn't know the layout of the place, and doesn't want to accidentally walk into a closet or a cupboard. He braces himself after a few minutes and finally gets inside, inspecting the walls and doors with his eyes.

Quentin vanished completely, but he can hear kitchen noises from far away.

There's a small step in front of light blue double doors. On the sides, there's a small archway that leads to a living room with a huge television and a leather couch. Further away, it seems like it's the kitchen, since it's where Quentin's disappeared to.

On the left side there are two cream doors that lead to a guest bathroom — or at least he assumes, since it has no personal belongings in there whatsoever, and Nigel might be a complete sociopath, but Quentin isn't — and an office of sorts.

There's a hallway in there too, but he doesn't have time to venture there. Quentin arrives with a mug of tea, walking in rushed but quick steps so as not to spill it.

“Go lie down, you'll feel better.” he says and leads Eliot towards the light blue doors. They slide open, which, _woah_, and make way for a wide room in mostly beige tones and light blue. Quentin makes him sit on the bed and places the mug on his hands.

Restlessly, he leaves Eliot and goes close the curtains. The windows are so wide they almost take up all of the walls in the back of the room.

“Do you have a headache?” Quentin asks, turns off the main lights and turns on a small lamp on the bedside table. “We're out of Earl Grey, but I can buy some tomorrow morning.”

“It's ok, you don't have to.” Eliot pats Quentin's arm. “I'm going to. Uh.” he stands and leaves the mug on a desk. “I think I'm gonna take a shower, I.” he looks around and hopes the door on the side of the room is an in-suite bathroom, because he's already making his way there.

“Ok, ok. Yeah. If you need anything I'm—”

“I know, I know.” he closes the door quickly.

His back hits the marble wall. He takes in a breath. Another. Notices a key on the door and locks it. His phone buzzes once and he whips it out, but it's not Nigel.

It's Margo, thank God.

**bambi**

**change of plans**

**nigel screwed me over**

**im at his apartment i cant get home yet**

_what?_

_what did that sack of shit do?_

_imma chop off his nutsack_

**thank u for the support**

**but im stuck at his apartment**

**with his boyfriend**

_he has a boyfriend??_

**yes**

**just one of the THOUSAND things he didnt prepare me for**

_just gtfo_

**i cant**

**i dont have any cash on me**

_i'll sent u an uber_

_where are u_

**idk either**

_jesus fuck eliot_

_i cant help u like that_

**right im fucked**

_dont despair_

_hes gotta have to come back at SOME time_

**yeah**

**but he wont answer my texts**

_hes probably passed out drunk in a ditch somewhere_

_tomorrow morning hes gonna wake up_

_and go back to where u are and u can switch_

_u'll see_

**right right**

**it makes sense**

**i hope**

_it does_

_theres no way hed just left his fancy apartment_

_his money and his boyfriend wit u and then just_

_bolted_

**right it makes no sense**

_im always right_

_im telling u tomorrow morning_

_hes gonna reply_

_or else just_

_idk_

_steal a bunch of his crap_

_break his tv idk_

_ditch in the morning_

**he better pay me with fucking interest**

_when he answers u text me ok_

**ok**

**thanks bambi**

**idk what i would do without u**

_u wouldnt_

_bye bitch_

_stay safe_

Bambi always calms his nerves. Although not so much tonight.

He undresses. Since he's here might as well take a shower with Nigel's fancy products. Stay in there until Quentin falls asleep so he doesn't have to have an awkward-ass conversation with the guy who thinks he's his twin brother.

It's a wall shower with glass doors. It's fine, he doesn't have any modesty issues, and the door's locked, Quentin's not gonna walk in. He leaves Nigel's clothes on the sink and stays under the spray of water for some good 45 minutes. When he's all pruny, he walks off.

When he considers the problem of finding clothes to sleep in, and weighs in just making it awkward and sleeping in his used underwear, he opens the door to find Quentin has already left Eliot silk pajamas folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

The lights are on, but Quentin's off elsewhere.

Would it be too much if he opted to go sleep somewhere else? On the couch? Would Quentin question it? Be upset? Or fret some more and then they'd have a huge fight and Eliot would have to break up with his brother's boyfriend, which, _honestly_, would be for the best, he could do a thousand times better than Nigel but.

He was overthinking this. He was totally panicking.

_Just lie down and go to sleep, Eliot._

He does that. Turns off the lights and buries himself under the covers on the side he assumes it's Nigel's by the beside table contents.

It takes over half an hour more before Quentin gets back in the room. He sighs at the door, a broken little sound, and gets on the other side of the bed quietly so as not to wake him and stays still for a very long time.

Eliot figures neither of them actually get to sleep so soon.


	2. Los Dos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot wakes up the next day to realize that... _maybe_ that was a bad idea after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for... Stranger Things spoilers? Yeah, I guess that's what's happening lmao. This chapter also got very fucking long for no good reason and I apologise. If the last part also gets a bit more incomprehensible in terms of English is because I finished over 20 pages the next day I posted chapter 1, then took a whole week to keep writing and the final part I just thought, my _God_ finish this already,

Morning barely filters through Nigel's grey curtains. It makes the room only slightly brighter, just enough for Eliot to make out the silhouette of Quentin fast asleep with his back turned to him.

He'd been restless throughout the entire night. Mostly worrying that Quentin would try to snuggle up on him, notice he was still awake and try to confront him on his odd behavior once more, or that Nigel would show up in the dead of the night and find Quentin snuggled up on Eliot and accuse him of being some maniac who tried to take his place, lie about their plan and Eliot would end up in jail by 10 AM.

Fortunately, it's exactly this mental circling and ridiculous scenarios that eventually exhaust and knock him the fuck out for a while. He hardly has any rest, but at least morning has already arrived.

He checks if Quentin is still soundly asleep and slips from under the covers, taking his phone with him to the living room.

It's far brighter in there, wide glass doors make way for a long balcony. Eliot closes the curtains on it, feeling unnerved.

Nigel hasn't replied or read any of his texts yet. It's a little past 8 o'clock and it seems hard to believe he wasn't planning on getting back home and kicking Eliot out of his house any soon, so he tries his luck with a phone call.

For naught.

“_The number you're trying to reach does not exist. Pleas_—” the mechanical voice says for the fifth time.

It _is_ Nigel's actual number. It's the one he'd used to text him and just last night he was still receiving Eliot's messages, even if he wasn't reading them. Heart thrumming in his chest, Eliot tries messaging him again, but this time the texts don't even come through to him.

_Shit. Shit, shit shit._

His fingers dial for another, more familiar number.

“_El?_”

“Margo!” he whispers, checking back to see if Quentin hadn't woken up and gone searching for him. “I need your help, I don't know what to do. Nigel isn't here yet and he didn't answer any of my texts and I tried calling him but it said his number doesn't exist? I can't text him anymore either, I—I don't know what happened, it's strange he didn't try to contact me at all, what—”

“_Eliot. Shit,_” her voice is interrupted by a loud thumping noise in the backgroung. “_you can't come home yet._”

“What? Why? What happened, are you okay?”

“_I'm okay, but you gotta stay there for a while longer, ok? Mike showed up._”

Eliot's heart stops.

Then it drops.

His legs give out and he falls back in the couch.

“_He showed up like, a couple hours ago. I told him to fuck off, but he just won't leave, I keep hearing him pace in front of the door. He's saying he's not leaving until he gets to talk to you._”

“I'm. Tell him I'm not there.” he says, uselessly.

“_I said that! He didn't believe me. I think he does now, but he's... Waiting. So just, can you hang in there just a little bit? If Nigel shows up—_”

“Margo, I—don't think he's gonna show up.”

“_What?_”

“That's—That's what I called to tell you about. I think something happened? Best case scenario his battery died, but I think. Something, might have happened to him? It's _weird_, I saw his wallet right next to the bed _just now_, I don't think he'd leave it behind? Would he?”

“_Jesus fuck, Eliot. You gotta get out of there._”

“I know.”

“_What if he got his snob ass murdered and the cops find you pretending to be him—!_”

“I know! But I can't go back home yet...”

“_Because of Mike. Shit._” she goes silent for a bit. “_Look, we both know Mike's impatient. He's definitely not hanging around here for very long. When he leaves I'm gonna text you and __you __get back here and we, I dunno, we figure out as we go._”

“Bambi, not gonna lie to you, I'm kinda freaking out here.”

“_Pull your shit together! You're _not _gonna be framed for murder today!_”

“I wasn't worried specifically about _that_, but now that you _said it_...”

“_Calm your tits!_”

“Ok, ok.” Eliot nods, more to himself than anything, there's no one else in the room.

But Quentin's awake. Quentin's awake? Yep, he can hear him moving on the bed. Shit.

Eliot stands up and rushes by the door of their bedroom. Quentin is still mostly sleepy, moving around in that way one does when they notice the bed is half empty, but are still too groggy to process what it means.

He sees the bathroom door, ajar, and makes long silent strides towards it.

Quentin had just lifted his head off the pillow when Eliot closes and locks the door.

“_Eliot? You're still there?_”

“Bambi, I'm gonna hang up. Don't worry about me, just get rid of Mike.” he whispers and glues his ear to the door, trying to hear if Quentin has stood up.

“_Got it. Text you later. Good luck._”

“Bye-bye.”

There's no sound on the other side of the door, Quentin is presumably still on the bed.

Eliot leaves his phone on the sink, screen up case Margo texts him, and opens the cabinet next to the mirror. Maybe if he pretends he's just getting ready for the day Quentin will leave him alone.

There's a few skin products in there, some aftershave lotions and brushes, vitamins and melatonin, a bit of basic make-up like concealers and eyeliner, and two orange prescription pill bottles. While inspecting the labels closely, he sees that they are antidepressants and anxiolytics, both prescribed for _Quentin M. Coldwater_.

_Oh, Quentin._

As if summoned, Quentin knocks on the door.

“Nigel? Baby, you okay in there?” he asks gently.

The bathroom door is locked, but Eliot still puts everything back in the cabinet and closes it hastily like Quentin was about to come in and catch him red-handed going through his stuff.

“Yes, yes, I'm fine. I'm going to shower. I-I'll be right out.”

“Okay. If you, uhm, if you need anything, if you're still feeling sick...”

“I'm much better, I promise. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Uh...” a sigh. “Fine.”

He hears Quentin's footsteps softly thudding away from the door and sighs in relief. At one point or another he'll have to leave the bathroom, even if just to let Quentin use it. Better yet, he should take a quick shower and let Quentin in there so he can sneak out unnoticed.

It's a plan, it just doesn't solve his Mike issue.

He checks his phone, but Margo hasn't texted giving him the go yet. He runs his hand through his hair and looks at his reflection for help. Mirror Eliot provides him nothing, which is still more than Nigel has done so far.

Defeated, he strips down and sits inside the tub. It's a little too short for him, he wonders if Nigel ever used it. There's a shower gel and what he assumes is a bath bomb, but he feels like just turning on the faucet and soaking miserably in there until Margo calls him.

He lingers for some 20 minutes, pondering on his options. Sure, it would be _dishonest_ of Eliot to take Nigel's cash from his wallet to pay for a cab or an Uber, but, frankly, Nigel has been nothing but dishonest to him so far, so it would be quite the just deserts.

Nigel would _have_ to go back home eventually. His credit cards, his ID, a bunch of money were there in just his wallet, and there was still a Macbook and a bunch of other pricey electronics in his office.

If he's learned anything about his brother in the last 24 hours was that he was exactly the type of asshole to set Eliot up to deal with all of his problems, but just too covetous to just disappear and leave behind so many valuables that Eliot could take.

There's also the matter of his boyfriend, and his mistress, and who knows, maybe he had more sorry fools he's stringing along behind Quentin's back. Eliot is _not_ gonna go through the trouble of dealing with any more of them.

This time Quentin hasn't left any clothes at the foot of the bed for him to find which, _fair_, he's neither Eliot's nor Nigel's nanny, but it makes his life just a little bit harder right now.

Thankfully, he did leave the closet door a little open, so Eliot walks out of the bathroom and finds Nigel's space and drawers.

He's gonna have to take these clothes with him if Nigel doesn't call him for the switch, so he better do it _soon_.

Regardless, Eliot decides to take a nice golden watch and dress up in a full three-piece like the night they met. He looks absolutely gallant on it, and kinda can't wait to show it to Margo, when the phone finally rings.

He jumps to catch it, heart racing, noticing it's not Margo, but an unknown number. Nigel, it's gotta be, he lost his phone, or his battery died and now he was calling from somewhere else.

“Hello?”

“_Nigel. Where in the Hell, are you?_” a booming, imposing voice says. Eliot removes the phone from his ear and double checks it.

“I'm... Uh.” he supplies, the English accent an afterthought.

“_I have a full meeting room here, with all of the agency partners waiting for strategy presentations and everybody is ready here, except for you and Todd._” the man continues, with a vigorous cadence. It's an astounding and intimidating voice Eliot is sure belongs to one of Nigel's superiors. He just doesn't know how the _fuck_ did he get Eliot's phone number. “_Go on, explain yourself._”

_Huh..?_

“I... Don't have an explanation really.”

“_Well, then get your ass in here already._” and then he hangs up.

_Huh?!_

That's... Nigel's boss, isn't it? And if he has Eliot's phone number it can only be that... The only connecting factor between Eliot and Nigel's workmates is... Nigel himself. But he wouldn't, _he wouldn't_... He couldn't! Why... In the _world_ would even _do_ that?

Eliot looks down at his phone. He opens up a few messages he notices he's received in the last hour spent getting ready, and finally sees the various different numbers addressing him as Nigel, mentioning this supposedly important meeting.

Most of them also include a message introducing themselves, saying things along the lines of “_Hey, this is Todd, WHERE ARE YOU???_” or “_Boss, just a reminder of your meeting at 9:30 AM. This is Tick speaking._” and “_Boss, this is Fray, can we speak after the meeting? There's something weird with your credit card bill._”

So. Not only has Nigel provided Eliot's number to his boss, he likely gave his number to his _entire_ contact list. All that... for pretending to be him for one night? No. No way.

He didn't, that son of a bitch.

In a fury, he squeezes the phone in his hand and struts out of the room, immediately coming across Quentin in the entrance hall, dressed up already, adjusting a messenger bag across his chest.

He looks up at Eliot as soon as the doors slide open. “Hey, Josh is downstairs waiting for you. He said you're late.”

“I'm... kind of late.”

“So hurry.” he says, seeing Eliot standing around there like an idiot.

Eliot can't move. He didn't agree to this. He doesn't want to pretend to be Nigel anymore, much less to go to his workplace and get his ass handed to him by a man who isn't even _his_ boss. Last night was already a mortifying hassle, only made bearable by Quentin's company.

He still looks pretty in the morning light. It's a bit of an academic look, a white shirt beneath a dark blue V-neck sweater, the brown messenger bag and Doc Martens.

His hair is a bit messier today, but it frames his face differently from last night. He looks less refined, but, cuter? Adorable. Like the kind of boyfriend who climbs into your lap after a difficut day and snuggles with you on winter.

Desperately, madly, he asks. “Are you going with me?” because if he _was_, then maybe this whole ordeal would be _just a teeny bit_ better.

Quentin furrows his brow. “No. I'm not? I'm teaching 'til afternoon today.”

_College professor, right, yeah._

“Right, right, of course.” Eliot waves off like it'd been a momentary burst of silliness from his part, which it absolutely was. “I'll see you later today.” he smiles despite being broken at being completely alone this time. “Josh is waiting for me.” he passes by quickly, before Quentin can make any further questions.

“Ok. See you, El.”

Eliot freezes.

Oh god.

Did he... Did he hear him talking to Margo?

Does he _know_?

“What?” he asks, strangled, turning to Quentin slowly.

Quentin blinks his shiny brown eyes many times and then flushes. He ducks his head before speaking.

“Sorry, I... know you hate nicknames, I was just... trying something.”

It takes a while for Eliot to pry his eyes off Quentin's blushed skin.

He... He doesn't know... He's. It's Nigel. Nig-_El._ A perfectly reasonable nickname for someone called Nigel. Sounds better than Ni. Or Nig? How would someone even say that. El is fine.

El is great, it's even better. If someone calls him Nigel and he doesn't answer it could be suspicious, but he always answers to El. So that's... good? It sounds nice. It sounds better than Nigel. It rolls off Quentin's tongue just, really _really_ nicely.

He closes his mouth, he hadn't even realised it was hanging open.

“No, it's. Nice. I like it.”

“Oh.” Quentin looks up, his mouth makes a small 'o' shape and stays that way as his fingers fidget with his bag. “Ok, great.” he smiles tiny, pleased with himself.

_Fine, you're pretty, we get it._

“I've got to go. Bye.” Eliot turns around swiftly and disappears into the elevator.

Mostly he doesn't want to keep staring at Quentin like a fool. He hasn't really been exercising his self-control these last few years with the whole freedom from a bigoted small town and what not, so he's not used to _seeing_ an appetizing thing and not being allowed to even take a bite.

_New plan, avoid Quentin for as long as I pretend to be Nigel. Which will be... How long?_

_Shit_. Now that he's on the elevator he realizes he has no plan to get out of there, he just mindlessly carried on going to work. Nigel's work. Like a dumbass.

Maybe he can just run? He's gonna sweat all over Nigel's expensive clothes, but you know what? _Good_. He better get them all dirty and fucked up so when they switch again Nigel has to get back home in complete filth.

“Finally! We're late!” Josh yells, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He's already on the ground floor, Josh is waiting outside, leaned back on the car. He opens the back door and stares at Eliot.

_New plan, just... die a slow painful death at Nigel's work, I guess._

“Sorry.” he says getting in, but Josh doesn't answer.

He closes the door behind him and then goes to the driver's seat. When the car starts, Eliot immediately texts Margo.

**BAMBI**

**911**

**IM ON A CAR OMW TO NIGELS WORK**

**FOR A MEETING IM COMPLETELY UNPREPARED FOR**

**HELP**

_HOW THE FUCK_

**A LOT OF THINGS HAPPENING ALL AT ONCE**

**DO NOT YELL AT ME**

**IM GOING THROUGH ENOUGH AS IT IS**

_JESUS FUCK_

_GODAMMIT ELIOT!_

**Idk what happened!!!**

**nigel gave my number to his contact list**

**then his boss was calling and yelling at me??**

**and then the driver was waitig for me**

**because i gotta go to this meeting??**

**HELP**

_OK OK_

_fuck just_

_hold up_

_this is perfect_

**wat is**

_you go there_

_and you get him fired_

**what what why**

_he deserves it!!_

_you get in there and you YELL at irene mcallister_

_and tell her she smells like a drunkass bums butthole_

**omg**

_get his ass FIRED!_

_then come back home for victory run_

**did mike leave already**

_he left the hallway but hes downstairs waiting in his car_

_i told him imma call the cops on his ass and he got scared_

**jesus call them anyway**

_ill deal with him dw_

_im not gonna let him be here when u get back_

**thanks**

**also**

**i need ur googling skills**

_for what now_

**plz google about nigels work**

**im about to cry on a limousine**

_i thought that was ur dream_

**not like this!!**

**NOT**

**LIKE**

**THIS**

_im on it_

Margo, Eliot's badass guardian angel that she is, proceeds to send him various links about Nigel's workplace, an agency called _Spire PR_, co-owned and co-administered by Irene McAllister and three others.

According to their official website, Nigel Chapman filled in the role of Co-Director of Public Relations, whatever that was, alongside... _Todd_.

Some of Margo's contacts also informed them that the agency was going through somewhat of a crisis after their last brand ambassador, a pop artist called Bigby, ditched them for a better offer.

That was probably what the meeting was about today or so they hoped.

Margo also helpfully reminded him of the existance of Nigel's 3 assistants, a number that was excessive, but would come in handy right now. Since they already had Eliot's number, all he needed to do was text them.

He inhales deeply and tries his best to channel Nigel for it.

**Tick, has the meeting started?**

_Not yet, boss._

_Rafe and Abigail from the other department already presented._

**Why isn't Todd presenting without me?**

_Todd is buying you some time_

_but my God._

**Oh, no.**

**What is he doing?**

_The worst. The absolute worst, boss._

**Stop him. I'm almost there.**

**Is my presentation ready?**

**Is it written down anywhere?**

_Yes, I'll get your notes._

**Good.**

**Also I need a coffee.**

_I'll get you one._

**And a excuse to why I'm late.**

_Why are you late, boss?_

**Doesn't concern you.**

**Do as I told you.**

_Right away, boss._

A perfect picture of competence, Tick was waiting for Eliot at the door of the building, besides a tall strawberry blond Eliot recognised as another one of Nigel's assistants, Charlton.

“Things aren't looking good, boss.” Tick says, shoving a coffee cup in Eliot's hands. He doesn't really want it, but God was it a power trip to ask for it.

“Good morning, Tick. Charlton.” he says calmly, like he isn't about to go end Nigel's entire career.

“Sir.” Charlton says, britishly. _Oh God, I hope he's not someone Nigel knows personally._ “I've contained Todd, he offered to present without you, but Ms. McAllister is quite pissed that you left the event early yesterday without informing anyone. Also, she most certainly did_ not_ appreciate that you let Todd make the speech either.”

“_Fuck_ me sideways!” he says, more to hear what it would sound in Nigel's voice.

Charlton makes a tiny gasp, but Tick looks unfazed. “I have your notes with me, boss. Also, a lady called... Fen? Keeps trying to talk to you?” Charlton snaps his head at him with widened eyes, and quickly gestures for Tick to shut up.

Eliot takes note of the action, but doesn't say anything.

“I'll deal with her, sir.” he simply says.

“O...Kay.” he replies, entering the elevator and motioning at the panel with his head so someone else will press the right button. He doesn't know which floor they're going, but this way it just looks like he's too important to press the button himself.

Tick does it and continues speaking. “Mr. Fogg has been asking for you. I suggest you use a large commotion on the road as an excuse for your belatedness.”

“I'll think about it.” he replies. That sounds like Nigel, right?

“Boss?”

“I'm thinking of telling him to go fuck himself today.”

“Boss!” Tick gasps exasperated.

“Please drink your coffee, sir.” Charlton says, in a more muted, but very English desperation. Eliot laughs, because he likes fucking with people, but also because the doors opened and they are at their floor. His hand itches for a cigarette.

Right away he can see the meeting room through the glass panels, already full and with Irene McAllister herself inside. Todd is fretting by another door closer by, he spots Eliot and sighs deeply in relief.

“Nigel! I swear I held them back for as long as I could. They wouldn't let me present on my own. Ms. McAllister is like... super mad.”

“Hold this.” he shoves the coffee cup into Todd's hands. “Tick, pass me my notes.” Tick does just that.

Eliot skims briefly through them.

It's somewhat about the new ambassador thing he and Margo had seen, but it is also about a new strategy for attracting clients and introducing newer celebrities to the media.

It's pure boredom, and maybe a good reasonable idea, so that's just not what Eliot is going to present to them. He throws the notes in the trash right in front of a confused Todd, Charlton and Tick.

“Change of plans.”

“What?” Todd's voice goes up an octave. “What change of plans?”

“I'm going to, as you Americans say it, _wing it_.”

“No, God, no.” Todd places the coffee down, but Eliot steps up into the meeting room before Todd can try to physically restrain him. He enters after Eliot, flustered for whatever he might have been doing to distract the room a while ago.

“Chapman.” Irene McAllister says, standing behind her chair and holding the back of it with her sensibly manicured hands. “Are you ready or are you gonna waste our time some more?”

“Please, take your seat, Ms. McAllister, I'll not disappoint.”

She huffs, but sits down anyway. A bald, dark-skinned man with thick black glasses sits besides her. Eliot recognises his voice as he says. “You may begin speaking.”

Now, Nigel and Todd's original plan offered a safe strategy.

To make newer celebrities relevant through association to other more well-known celebrities via social media accounts managed by specialists. Replace Bigby with Pearl Sunderland, a slightly older actress than the previous ambassadors, but a veteran and a recognisable face nevertheless.

Eliot's _new_ plan was different.

“One word. Scandal.”

Silence.

“What?” Fogg asks after a while.

“Oh, scandal. Fabricated scandals, real scandals. A complete PR nightmare, the worse it looks the better.”

“What... What in the _world_ are you proposing?” a dirty blonde woman with a sleepy expression and way too much eyeliner says.

“Let me tell you. _Relevance_. There's no point in managing stars that are gonna fade out in a year or two. And sure, difficult celebrities that get into a lot of scandals are _persona non grata_ in our business, but good Lord, it's the only way people care about them nowadays.”

“I... I'm not sure I'm following.” the guy next to her says, lifting his hand a bit shyly.

“_Think_ about it. Horrible people are _memorable_ people. There's a reason reality TV stars are all awful. It gets attention. It draws in viewers. And this is more or less that same strategy. We get them to fight each other, tabloids start posting and tweeting about catfights, we make a huge deal about them putting their differences aside and then get them to subtweet each other a week later, just so the buzz doesn't die down.”

“What's a subtweet..?” the same guy asks.

“How are you still working here?” he says as haughtily as possible.

“I—”

“Don't let him get to you, Rafe.” the blonde next to him says, holding on to his wrist. “Honestly, Nigel. I think that's a terrible plan.” she fumbles for words. “Who. Who would even _be_ our new ambassador in this?”

Eliot thinks for all of one second. “Poppy Kline.”

“Poppy Kline?” Fogg says in mild recognizance.

“Poppy fucking Kline.” someone gasps as he curses. It's the woman next to Rafe, Abigail, he assumes, and she looks back and forth but no one follows her on it.

“No one wants to PR for Poppy Kline.”

“Exactly. Complete nightmare. Also, it makes her perfect.”

Irene McAllister laughs. It's the mean, perfect laugh of a cruel boss who's about to fire an employee. And it's perfect and mean, so much so that Eliot smiles along with her.

And then.

“I like it.” a marble smooth voice says.

Everyone turns to the woman on Irene's other side. She's remarkable, with an impressive bone structure, impossibly fair skin and even fairer hair, and eyes deeply black. She nods to herself, testing Eliot's idea in her mind, then turns to Irene, who's watching her with a deadly glare.

“How do you think this is...”

“Oh, he's absolutely right. I didn't even know who Ariana Grande was until she started licking donuts.” she shrugs. “As long as we have complete control of the scandal, it's perfect. Much better than Rafe and Abigail's idea of contract relationships, no one buys that anymore since Taylor Swift ruined it for everyone.”

Irene scoffs. “Are you telling me... that in the current age of overly _problematizing_ whiny social media, the best idea is to deliberately get our clients into scandals?”

“It works.” she shrugs again, this time just to annoy Irene. “People always remember a good fight. Besides, even if they think it's PR, it's just too entertaining for them to look away. Good job, Nigel.”

Eliot, stunned, smiles again and nods.

_How the fuck did that work._

“I agree with Ms. Fey.”

“Oh, no, Henry, not you too.”

“I think if Mr. Chapman can pull this off, we might as well be one of the most requested PR agencies in the business. As a matter of fact, if we have someone who can manage _Poppy_ _Kline_'s image, I think they can manage pretty much _anyone_.” he praises Eliot, but it vaguely sounds like a threat.

“I... Frankly have _no_ idea why you are even entertaining this. No. My answer is no. Absolutely not.”

“May I remind you, _Irene_, that you no longer hold the majority vote here at Spire PR, and Mr. Fogg's and mine count as much as yours. And it seems like... we're winning.”

Irene's mouth twists and she goes red in anger. “Everett thinks this is bullshit too.” she turns and says to Eliot. “This is bullshit,” she turns back to Ms. Fey and to an elderly man sitting next to her. “he's bullshitting us. Obviously, right?”

The elderly man doesn't even look awake. Much less look alive.

He has his head leaned back on his motorized black chair and is profusely drooling all over his shoulder. A tall woman with dark blonde hair in victory curls and cat rimmed glasses taps his shoulder a couple of times.

“Everett!” she whispers. “Everett!”

“Uh? Ah, yes. Yes, of course not. Everyone. Make it work.” he says then goes right back to sleep.

“What... What the fuck does that mean?” Irene creases her brow.

“He likes the idea,” the woman behind him says. “he wants us to make it work.”

“What? That's not..!”

“You heard him, Irene. It's three votes against one. Congratulations, boys, we will implement your strategy right away.”

“Hold up!” Abigail says.

“Ah, I think this is meeting is over.” Mr. Fogg says, standing up and reaching for a walking cane. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have other places to be.”

“I. You. No.” Irene sighs and massages her temples. “Fine. I guess common sense is a rarity these days. You _better_ not sink my business, Chapman.” she stands up and points a finger in his direction. “You, get me a coffee.” she says to Todd.

He yelps and runs out of the room.

Eliot smiles tightly to her. “Like I said, Ms. McAllister,” _what the fuuuuck._ “I'll not disappoint.”

“Oh, I _really hope you do_.” she lowers her voice in a menacing tone, then promptly walks out.

The others slowly seep out of the conference room as well.

“Huh, that went better than I thought.”

Shit. If by the end of this he gets Nigel a promotion he's gonna flip his shit.

“_Better than you thought?_” Todd screeches when he arrives back, coffee in hands but no Ms. McAllister in sight. “You didn't think this through?!” he's both deeply impressed and frustrated.

“No, like I said I was winging it.” he shrugs and takes the coffee from his hands, making his leave.

“A-Are you gonna deliver this to Ms. McAllister?”

“No.” Eliot says and drops the coffee on a nearby trash can.

Todd squeals from the back.

After getting Nigel's bosses unexpected approval and giving Todd enough fodder for today's entry in his personal journal, Eliot finds the door to his office. That is, Nigel's office.

It has a nice little plaque that says _Nigel S. Chapman. Director of Public Relations_. And leads into a moderately sized office with a pretty view of the city's skyline.

He sits on the slick glass desk and starts the computer. The screen flashes on and asks for a password.

_Fuck_. And now?

He thinks for a minute. “Tick!”

Tick shows up at the door. “Yes, boss.”

“My password.” he demands, raising his chin a little too for extra pizzazz.

“Boss, your password is only of your own knowledge, and I wouldn't even _dare_ to ask you—”

“Tick.” he interrupts. “My password.”

“Right away, boss.” Tick gulps and rushes to his side. He leans over and types it in quickly, like Eliot expected him to.

As he turns around to leave, Eliot says. “Wait! Recite it to me.”

Tick opens his mouth and then stops. He looks to the sides and, when the coast is clear, leans over to whisper.

“It's _ireneeatmyass_.”

“Thank you. That will be all.” Eliot grins and waves him away.

He looks around Nigel's folders and documents, but it's strictly work stuff. He wonders if his computer back at the apartment has the same password, but figures that would be just too lucky.

Some 15 minutes later, Margo texts him.

_i did it hes gone_

_u can come back_

**finally**

**im at his work rn**

_are u packing his stuff in a little cardboard box?_

**no**

**i threw his presentation in the trash**

**and presented them a train wreck idea**

**but**

**they actually loved it**

_sigh_

_i told you to just cuss her out eliot_

_ur too charismatic to get fired_

**ugh i know**

**i was too eliot and not enough nigel abt this**

_can u get out of there rn?_

**i think so**

_i have to leave for a job interview soon_

_if u want i can meet u up later at his place_

**y u wanna meet there?**

_i wanna see it_

_also_

_we gonna rob him_

**ily**

_i know babe_

**im gonna get his driver to take me there**

**then ill turn on my location**

**so you can find me later**

_c ya_

Eliot tells Todd he's leaving and feigns a headache when inquired about it. It's not a refined plan, but it works, so.

* * *

It's a bit disturbing for Eliot that Nigel doesn't need keys for his apartment. He supposes the overall security of the building must be enough on its own to make them unnecessary, along with the fact that Nigel lived in a far more secure neighborhood than Eliot did, but he still wished there was a way to close off the elevator access to others in the building.

Maybe it's an unconscious thing, where he feels a little more seen while about to steal his twin brother's crap.

For reasons like this, he nearly jumps out of his skin when the phone rings.

He's surprised, for a second, that Nigel even has a landline, but answers it anyway.

“Hello?”

“_Nigel! Thank God, I was worried you wouldn't be home._” Quentin says from the other side, seeming frantic. “_I forgot my cellphone back there, could you bring it over to me? I-I think it's charging on my bedside table?_”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Eliot says. “I'm right on it.”

“_Thanks, El. Bye._” he uses the nickname again in his honey voice. Eliot feels inexplicably warm.

“Bye.”

He hangs up and Eliot goes to the bedroom right away. The phone is exactly where Quentin said it would be, battery full and still connected to the charger. Eliot picks it up and the screen lights up.

He doesn't have the password nor does he plans to pry, but he sees the wallpaper screen this way, a stylized artwork of a grandfather clock with what seems like two large ram heads at the top. It has some words on it too, a quote from a book novel that he remembers is from the _Fillory & Further_ _Series_, one Margo had annoyed him about a couple of times already.

Privately, he thinks that maybe Margo and Quentin would get along well.

He wipes that delusional thought off his mind.

The wise thing to do would be to just _leave_, instead of stealing his brother's stuff and then waiting for Margo so they can steal even _more_ of his shit. But, Quentin had never done anything wrong to him. It wouldn't hurt him to do this one favor.

Besides, poor guy was being cheated on, he deserved something nice.

Josh is still downstairs for an entirely unrelated reason, and hiding what looks like a small blunt behind his back as soon as he spots Eliot approaching.

_God, what I wouldn't do for a hit right about now._

“Can you take me to Brakebills University, or are you high?”

Josh chokes on air and fumbles an apology, saying he _wasn't smoking _and could _drive just fine_ and _that wasn't even a blunt_, but Eliot cuts his bullshit by manhandling his arm and checking to see if the blunt had been lit.

It hadn't, so they drive.

Eliot isn't quite sure of where Brakebills Uni is. He knows a few of the bigger universities in New York, but BU was smaller. He'd heard of it, of course, when he'd just moved in the city it was one of the few colleges within his price range, but in the end he'd decided to forgone an academic education and try his luck at acting.

Didn't pan out, obviously.

The campus is not so far from the apartment, but with the big city traffic, it seemed to take ages to get there. If he'd gone walking, by now, he'd already be going back.

He boredly messes around on his phone until a timed notification pops up in Quentin's screen. He picks it up from his lap and reads it.

_ANNIVERSARY DINNER TMRRW AT 9PM_

Whose anniversary? Their anniversary? His and Nigel's? For how long? Tomorrow? Did Nigel switch lives with a stranger just two days prior to his anniversary date with the boyfriend he lived with?! Would Quentin be angry enough to know about this that he'd break up with Nigel? He hopes so. For no reason. For Quentin's sake. Just that.

His heart feels constricted in his chest.

Fuck, why is Nigel so demeaning? Quentin seems so devoted to him. Why he wastes his time with a man like that? Why is this so painful to watch? Why does this reminds him so much of—

The limo stops. It draws in a few curious looks from the students reading in the grass. One girl turns to her friend and starts whispering about Eliot as he passes by.

He doesn't know where to find Quentin, and there's no point calling since he's got his phone, so he has to ask a security guard for the secretary and then ask a woman behind the balcony where he could find _Professor Coldwater_ (which, no kink or anything, he has to admit is kinda hot) to finally be directed to his office.

As he opens the door, Quentin isn't looking at him, he's almost buried his entire head inside his messenger bag, but definitely notices Eliot coming in from the corner of his eyes, since he calls out:

“Thank you so much... Nigel?” he blinks confusedly, it's something he does a lot. “What, you're here?” he removes himself from the bag and steps away from his desk and towards Eliot.

“You... asked me to bring your phone?” Eliot supplies a bit dumbly.

“Yeah, I know, but I thought you were gonna send Todd or,” he gesticulates with his hands, then pauses and stares at Eliot.

Eliot is not sure what he's looking for or seeing, but he doesn't have much time to try to figure out anyway. Quentin shakes his head.

“Nevermind.” he steps up to take the phone from his hand. “Thanks, baby.”

Then he gets on the tip of his toes and presses a feather-light kiss on Eliot's lips.

His stomach flips. His heart clenches.

The world tilts sideways a little, and Eliot's mind becomes blank.

He feels nothing, but Quentin's soft _soft_ lips against his. So close like this he can smell his shampoo and cologne. It's so pleasant, it suits him so much.

It reminds Eliot just a little bit of the sea. He tastes just a little like coffee and nicotine. Standing so close he feels so warm, so safe.

It doesn't even last that long, it was a measly peck, but Eliot's vision still tunnels and shifts around Quentin and his glinting brown eyes. He smiles once, the corner of his eyes wrinkles just a bit. Eliot feels the breath be punched out of his lungs.

“You're welcome.” his voice comes out hoarse.

_Way to go, you gay disaster._

He clears his throat. “That's all?”

Quentin nods, still smiling shyly. “Unless you wanna stay for a class?”

“Depends, are you teaching about Oscar Wilde?” he quips, flirty, without meaning to. Quentin blushes a bit, rolls his eyes and puts some of his hair behind his ear.

“Nothing so on the nose.” he shoots Eliot a wry look. _My, my_. “I have to convince an entire class to read and make an essay on George Orwell.”

“Oh, light reading then.”

“Exactly.” Quentin is still grinning.

“I might need to take a rain check on that.”

“Oh, any literary preferences I might need to know of, just in case?”

“Hm, I've always felt an inclination towards Romanticism.” Quentin blushes again and laughs it off.

That very second, Eliot realizes he'd been leaning against the desk, watching Quentin up and down with flirtatious eyes. With a jolt he stands up straight again and wipes down his pants.

“Well, I've, actually, got to go, but. I will see you later.” he stands awkwardly, suddenly he doesn't know what to do with his limbs, why are they so long anyway. Quentin watches him fondly.

He narrows his eyes and searches for something on Eliot's face, but just shakes his head again.

“I'll be home by three,” a quick glance in Eliot's direction. “maybe you can use your rain check then.” his voice grows lower.

_Oh my God. Oooooh my God._

“Yeah.” he stifles a nervous laugh. “See you.”

“See you.” Quentin says with a smug smile, looking at his phone while organizing some papers.

Maybe the boyfriend thing to do would be to kiss him goodbye. Maybe he should have kissed him goodbye earlier today at the apartment too. Maybe the boyfriend thing to have been doing was kissing Quentin all along. Maybe he should get himself out there as quickly as possible.

“See ya, bye.” he says again and finally makes his leave.

He avoids Quentin's eyes, but can feel him watching Eliot's back as he walks out.

* * *

On the way back to the apartment, Margo had texted him saying she was leaving the interview, so when he arrives back he sends her his location.

It's been a _day_ so far, and Nigel's bathtub looks very alluring now. Margo will be there in a while actually, so maybe they could even take some time off on the pool he saw on the mezzanine downstairs.

But first, he'd like put all of Nigel's expensive watches on a large bag and take it home. He walks up to the bedroom door and unceremoniously slides it open.

To a visitor in the bed.

“Nigel.” the same brunette from before purrs, lying seductively sideways with a dark pink lingerie on.

“Oh God.” is all he can say.

“I know we had a small argument last night,” she shifts on the bed to lie on her stomach.

“Oh my God.” he steps back.

“But I said I was gonna make it up to it, didn't I?”

“Did you?” he steps back, not counting on the small step that props up the floor of the bedroom, and tripping on his feet.

“Ooh, baby, watch out.” she meows once, ridiculously, and leans forward on the bed, crawling towards him. “Why don't you come over here and let me see if you got hurt.” she wriggles her shoulders. “I can make it stop hurting. Or make it hurt a lot.” she grins and.

And, he's gonna pass out.

“Uh, why are you here?”

She shrugs. “I guess I didn't make it obvious enough?” she says, lifting her torso and standing on her knees. “Let me fix that.” she hooks one finger under the thin strap of the lingerie and lets it slide off her shoulder.

“Aaah, hah. Ok, uhm. No. No, no we're not. Please dress up, get dressed. Out of the bed, let's go.”

She hops out of bed perplexed, covering her one bare shoulder and fishing for a brown overcoat on the floor.

“I-I don't get it. Did you... Are we breaking up? You said we were gonna talk later, but you didn't even text me, I...” he smooths out the sheets and gently guides her out of the room.

“Where are your shoes? Please take them I need you to leave.”

“Why?! Nigel, talk to me!”

Maybe he _should_ break up with her. If anything that's the one way he can step on Nigel's toes. He weighs in the options and doesn't decide on anything yet.

“I really can't have anyone else here right now, please.”

“Oh, oh my God. Are you cheating on me?!” he voice bursts with rage. “I can't believe you, you're seeing another girl, aren't you? You said you stopped!” she pushes away the hand Eliot had put on her back and steps out of the path he was guiding her.

“Jesus Christ, just, not _now_, ok? I have too much on my plate already.”

“What's her name? Is it one of your assistants?” she gasps. “It's that Charlton guy, isn't it? He called me today and told me to stop bothering you, I should've known.”

Is this, maybe, Fen?

“Please, go.” the elevator door opens, he gestures for her to go inside.

She's still slipping her feet in her heels. Her eyes are furious, but her trembling bottom lip betrays her poise. She sniffs once and throws her long hair back.

“You _owe_ me an explanation. You can't just drop me like this, ok? I'm a _person_.”

“I know, I know, all day I've been dealing with a bunch of _people_, and honestly it's been a pain in my ass.”

She clearly misinterprets his words. “Oh my God, how many? Was it here? Did you... have an entire room of—”

“No, no... That's not...” he snaps his jaw shut. “_Please_, just leave. We can talk _later_.”

Resigned and gathering all the dignity she's still got left, Fen (if that is her) walks into the elevator and disappears behind the doors.

Eliot sighs.

“Jesus Christ. Give me a goddamn break.”

It takes a while still, but not too long, and the doorman rings in announcing Margo's arrival. He buzzes her up, a while passes and the elevator doors open again, this time to reveal...

“Bambi!” his face lights up on the sight of her. He stretches out his arms towards her and she slowly looks around before walking into his hug.

“Mama's here, shh, shh. No need to cry anymore.” she pats the back of his head.

“_Ugh_, Bambi. I'm having the weirdest fucking day.”

“I know I can imagine.” she lets go of him and eyes around the place, mentally judging the decor.

“No, you _can't_. I just had to sent away Nigel's... mistress? She showed up here in her lingerie and all, on the bed, it's crazy. And just before that I was talking to his _boyfriend_, I don't know if he has any more paramours hiding out anywhere about to jump me, but I'm... I'm _tired_.”

“Eh, this place is alright.” she shrugs.

“Bambi.”

“I heard you, I heard you, babe. The story's more interesting than the crib, but nothing worthy of Soap Opera Digest or anything.”

“I'm literally being forced to live the life of my long lost twin brother. How...”

She waves him off, plants a kiss on his cheek. “I thought we were here to rob this bitch.”

“Oh, let's get to it then.” he sighs and opens the doors on the left side of the hall. “Room's in the back, I was planning to get his entire Vacheron Constantin collection and his body wash. It's french and smells amazing.”

“Think bigger. Let's steal the TV.” she says, the living room entering her line of sight. She steps into the fluffy white rug.

He makes his way to the bedroom, opening up the all the drawers, leaving Nigel's accessories exposed. There was a bag he could swear he'd seen somewhere in the room and he starts searching for it. As he reaches behind the bed his fingers touch upon something protuding from under the mattress. He pulls a box of cigarettes.

“Thank fucking Christ.” he says immediately and looks for his lighter as if it would be in his pocket. He palms his sides for a while before remembering he's wearing Nigel's clothes and his twin doesn't smoke.

Actually, he'd made a big goddamn deal over not smoking so. He guesses, no, he realizes, it belongs to Quentin.

Hidden under the mattress like contraband since Nigel probably hated the very smell of it. He thinks of just less than an hour ago, at BU, and tasting nicotine on Quentin's lips.

A wave of hesitance washes him over.

“Bambi..?” he calls, but she doesn't hear him from the living room.

He goes after her and spots her tiny impossible frame eyeing up the flatscreen on the wall. His feet feel oddly stuck to the floor, his voice comes out off its usual pitch.

“Be practical, Bambi. How are you gonna carry that?”

“I know a guy.” she shrugs. “Don't sweat over it. Grab everything you can, then let's get the fuck out and never come back here.” she picks up a large black vase with golden cracks in it.

“Margo, hold up a sec. Look at me.”

She snorts. “Can't look at you when I'm busy stealing the TV.” she eyes the sides of it, planning how to unhook it from the wall. “A little help would go a long way, BTW.”

“I'm not stealing the TV, Margo, focus.” she sighs. “Let's think this through.” he licks his lips, his mind goes a million different places. _Why. Why doesn't he want to do this? _“This is all too strange. Why leave so much for us to rob? He has to know we'd rob him, or at least that I would. Or at least that I'd fuck up his life a little?”

“So what if he knew the risks? He messed with the wrong bitches, we get his shit and we floor it. It's life, he's gotta deal with it. Eat the rich and all that.”

“Oh, I'm all on board on getting karma all over his ass. But what if that's what he intended to happen?” she creases her brow at him. “Like, what if he's setting us up so the police finds us robbing him and we're like... arrested?”

Margo watches him for a couple of seconds.

“The fuck you mean?” she whips her hair back and puts down the vase. “Eliot, baby, he can't pin the idea on you, he literally started this. You still have the phone messages, you have proof. That is, before he tossed his phone and turned to smoke. Are you sure he didn't just took off?”

Clearly, she assumed his worries came from elsewhere, that's not the point he was making, _but_ it's important enough to take in consideration.

“I don't know, I...” he answers quietly. “Why would he? Why leave me stuck here, what does he gain from it?”

“No idea, but we're not staying here to find out. _That's_ why we're robbing him and then fucking off. Let's go.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I don't want to... To just disappear.” his hands twitches for a cigarette, his voice is too low. “He's a jerk and I don't wanna play whatever game he's playing, but I also don't want it to affect the people who don't deserve it.”

“Huh?” she looks around exasperated. “Who?”

“Like, his boyfriend, Quentin. He is a good person! I, he lives here too, I don't want him to think that his place was robbed and that his boyfriend just vanished with it. It's, it's awful. Also, that girl who just threw herself at me? Fen, I think? She's a little ditzy, but I don't think she's a terrible person, he was totally stringing her along too. And, there's his job, I did so well at his job today, and now there's a bunch of people expecting that I—”

“Oh, El, sweetie. You gotta let this go. You're getting in too deep undercover... It's time I pull you out of here.”

“The point is, it's—There's gotta be a way I can leave smoothly, you know?” he looks around and drops one hand on the back of the couch, scratches the leather with his nails. “If Nigel's not here to switch back then he just... Vanishes? And.” he looks back in the direction of the bedroom. Of the bathroom connected to it.

Where Quentin's meds are kept. Anxiolytics. Anti-depressants.

He imagines Quentin coming home to a house turned over, a bunch of shit missing. Nigel nowhere in sight. Thinks of Quentin alone on their anniversay day, the very next day, thinking that Nigel was killed on a burglary gone wrong. Thinks of the police trying to find Nigel, no traces, no blood left anywhere.

“I just can't. I can't do this to them. He's not a... character? He's a person. He kind of abandoned them, but they have no idea, we gotta think carefully before they get all worried over it and...”

“Eliot, this is not your responsibility. He played us. If he wants to ditch his friends, family and coworkers, that's his bullshit choice to deal with the consequences. Besides—”

“I knew it!” a voice cries out.

They both turn around to see Fen, eyes reddened and arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

“I knew there was another girl! You, you floozy! Skank!”

“Ex-_fucking_-cuse me, bitch?” Margo says with fire in her eyes, she stalks towards Fen seething for blood and Eliot has to put an arm in front of her to restrain her.

“Let's all calm down.”

“I'm not gonna calm down! You're leaving me for this, this... Who _is_ this?! After everything I've done for you! What did _she_ do for you? Huh?”

“Why are you still here? I told you to _go_.”

“I stayed behind because I had a _suspicion_ that you were seeing another girl. And I was right!” she lifts her hand. Slaps her thigh. “I had to ride the subway only with _this _on, Nigel.” she means the skimpy outfit under her overcoat. “And I get here and she's... She's..! Ugh!” Fen raises on arm and descends her hand on Margo's face.

Margo, however, catches her wrist mid-air. “Oh, no no no, _blanquita_, you did _not_ just try to slap me!” she lets go of her arm brutely. Fen steps back with widened eyes. “That's it, hold her down.” Margo says, holding Fen by her arms and shoving her into a chair.

“Wait, what are we doing?”

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry, please don't kill me!”

“Bambi?”

“I'm not killing her. Get something to restrain her!”

“Wha—? No!” she cries, her voice trembling and her thin knees shaking. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I called you a floozy! You're not! I swear! Or a skank either, _please_. I'm gonna go and never come back. I promise!”

Margo still holds her down on the chair. She motions for Eliot to grab the big black vase on the ground and he picks it up. Margo takes it from his hands and drops it on Fen's lap.

“Oof!” she struggles to hold it. Too heavy for her. “What, why...”

“Listen up, side piece. You're gonna stay with you little ass put, you hear me? If you drop this vase I'm getting the ropes, and it's _not_ gonna look sexy for you.”

She whines and cries a bit, nodding her head along. “I'll stay put, I promise.”

“I don't believe you. So don't even _think_ of doing anything, you got it?”

“Uh, uh-huh, I got it. Got it.” she nods her head fast, throws Eliot a few horrified looks.

“Bambi... What's... the plan here?”

“I'm gonna show you you're worrying over nothing.” she drops her hands on her hips and looks back down at Fen. “You're Fen, right?” Fen nods. “Ok, this guy over here,” she points at Eliot. Fen looks at him with pleading eyes. “is _not_ Nigel. He's not your boyfriend, lover, whatever the fuck he is. This is Eliot.”

“Hi.” Eliot gives a tiny wave.

“_Your _guy, Nigel, actual Nigel, abandoned you. All of you. Everyone in his life, he convinced my dumbass friend over here—”

“Hey!”

“—to go along with his ridiculous plan. They are _twins_. They are _i-den-ti-cal_. They dressed up as each other, and the _plan_ was for them to switch back last night. But,” she starts counting on her fingers. “Nigel didn't show up. He hasn't called. He's not replying to our texts. _Nada_. Most importantly, he don't give a _shit_. Or else he'd have told you something. Told _someone_ something. But he didn't. Sorry.”

Fen hears her explain all of this with a gaping mouth. Eliot picks on the lid of the cigarette box nervously and watches Fen's expression fall, then shift into various emotions, before she laughs disbelieving.

“You're... This is a joke, right? You can't... expect me to actually believe you.”

“I give up.”

He forsakes the british accent. “I'm sorry, but it's the truth, you're lovely, but I... don't _know_ you. So this whole thing of you showing up here like this,” he motions at her bare legs. “it's, uh, awkward. For everyone, involved.”

“Hah. It's not funny, guys. The fake accent is a nice touch, though.”

“It's the truth. We were about to rob his place, if you wanna join us and get revenge, go ahead.” Margo spreads out her arms and gestures around. Fen looks to the sides nervously, her breath hitches.

“It doesn't make any sense. This is... This isn't even possible. Who, who even are you then? A secret twin brother? Nigel doesn't have any siblings! Why... If you want to break up, just _say_ so... This is too cruel.”

“Ok, look, how can I prove I'm not Nigel? There's gotta be some way. We're twins, not the exact same person.”

Fen blinks away her tears slowly. Breathes in and out.

“There's, uh. His tattoo. He has a tattoo on his back. A flock of birds.”

“Tacky.” Margo crosses her arms.

“It's beautiful!” Fen snaps. “It's on his back, let me. Let me see it. Show me your back, then I'll believe you.”

Eliot looks at Margo. They have a small wordless exchange and then he sighs.

“Fine, you can look.” he says, removing his vest and unbuttoning his shirt.

Margo picks up the vase from Fen's lap, she breathes out with some relief. As Eliot finishes unbuttoning. he lifts up his arms to remove the shirt by his collar, looking right into Fen's eyes.

“Which side, where?”

She stands up and reaches for his shirt on her own, pulling it down on his left side, looking at the skin of his back. She gasps.

There's no tattoo in there. Just the faint belt scars left by his father, many years ago.

“You... It's not here.” she mumbles. Touches and wipes at his skin as if the tattoo would magically appear. “It's not... You didn't cover it, it's not make-up, is it?” she asks, but her fingers are roaming over the whitened scars. It's no make-up, it's real.

“I'm sorry.” Eliot says when she steps away.

“And he... He just left? Am I supposed to believe that..?”

“Think about it, Fen. If we'd killed him we would've just killed you too. Why would we lie about something as crazy as this?” Margo says, a tad more gently. Fen keeps shaking her head.

“And he's... gone? He just left you here to assume his life and... Oh, wow. I knew he... but I never thought he'd... This is so extreme. And he didn't say anything, to anyone, it's...” she struggles to breathe, tears flow down her pale cheeks.

“Look, sorry we were assholes about it. But, guy's an even bigger ass. Don't tell me you can't see him pulling a dick move like that...”

Fen shakes her head even more. Her lower lip trembles so much, she covers her entire face with her hands and spins around, back to the elevator.

“I can't... This is... I can't.”

She punches a button and the doors close.

Eliot sighs.

“That went well.”

Margo sighs.

“Fine, I see your point.”

“My point?”

She rolls her eyes. “It'd be cruel. He's awful, but he's got people who care about him. He doesn't deserve to have pretty girls and pretty boyfriends crying over him. So,” she huffs, brushes her hand through her hair. “I dunno.”

Eliot closes up his shirt just a bit, conscious about the scars on his back for the first time in a long while.

“Let me just. Give me just a day. Their anniversary is tomorrow, I think... What if he shows up then?”

“Maybe?” Margo doesn't sound super sure.

“Let's just try. It's... It's like I said, it's weird. Maybe he just..? Maybe he just extended his plans a little.”

Margo purses her lips and thinks while staring a corner in the wall.

“He has like, a bunch of assistants, right?”

“Yeah, three of them.”

“Call one of them. Hell, call all of them, find out his schedule. We can pretend you're him for another day then we... I don't know, we figure out. Keep, if... If that is what he intended then... I don't even know what we should do. This is all so... _skeevy_.” she shivers.

“I know, right?” he goes to the couch and sinks into it. “We just need time to come up with a convincing story. Nothing too sad, but definitely permanent. If he doesn't show.”

Margo bites onto one of her rings. “You don't think he... That something happened to him, right?”

It's a strange moment of compassion from Margo. Eliot could even call it some sort of personal growth, if he wasn't more or less sure it'd be temporary. Bambi was usually impulsive, explosive and a little egotistic, and he loved her like that. Besides, Nigel certainly didn't deserve her concern.

He'd already considered the possibility she'd brought up briefly, although not very seriously. Now that she put it back on the table, he can't help but question himself.

“I... sincerely don't know... I hope not.”

“It'd be _really_ fucked up if we were talking shit about him and dude was like... being held captive in a basement... in an ice tub... no kidneys.”

Eliot covers his mouth with his fist. “How very Law & Order.”

Margo shrugs.

“Where's your phone?”

He remembers what was their plan and scrolls down his last few conversations to find Tick's number. He texts him a _“Tick, send me my schedule this month, I'm on a new phone_” and then erases the part that seems like he's explaining himself because he feels like it isn't very Nigel to account for anything he does.

Tick takes a few minutes to reply and it says “_I believe Charlton has it__, boss_”.

Eliot huffs. “_Send me his phone number._”

Margo rolls her eyes from where she's reading from over his shoulder. “Why have three assistants if they can't even do the bare minimum.”

A wicked grin spreads over Eliot's face, she turns to him and, despite not knowing the reason why, mirrors it. Eliot cocks his head to the side and shrugs with one shoulder.

“So you can do _this_.” putting his phone on speaker, he calls Charlton's number. It rings twice before he picks up and Eliot shouts before the other can speak. “Charlton!”

“_Sir?_” he startles through the amplified static.

“What was _Fen_ doing in my apartment?” Eliot puts his hand on his hip.

A horrified gasp. “_Sir, I sincerely apologise—_”

“Don't bother me with the details of your incompetence. I've dealt with her myself. Let this not _ever_ repeat itself again.”

“_Yes, sir_.”

“I don't care, send me my monthly schedule to my new phone.”

And then he hangs up before Charlton can respond.

Villainous laughter grows at his side. Margo throws her head back in delight, ever fabulous, and curls one hand around Eliot's arm.

“Oh my _god_, that was so _bitchy_?” her pitch rises three octaves. “How did it feel?”

He preens under her gaze. “It's a power trip.” her hand rests on his chest and she proudly taps it twice.

“You learned so well, young padawan.” and just as Eliot opens his mouth to give her shit for being the ridiculous goddamn nerd she pretends she's not, Margo says. “Ah! How I miss yelling at my dependent social underlings.” she wipes an invisible tear from her eye.

“I love it when you talk about your sordid socialite past like it was the pre-war or some shit.”

She winks at him.

* * *

Apparently, Nigel had been living life like Miranda Priestley which, as boss as it sounded, was way less glamorous in practice.

It was restless and thankless, a prim grid routine with hourly appointments or activities organized in serial killer style. His work/social life ratio in particular were absurdly mingled together, causing Eliot to ask himself how did the man _sleep_ at all.

For instance, right now, Eliot-as-Nigel was supposed to be having a quick drop by Blue Bottle Coffee to later meet up with some of Irene's clients — which he assumed by the recognisable names, as it seems the McAllisters had strong connections with the Republican party in New York — an activity that had been usefully labeled on his calendar as “Networking again”.

Eliot wasn't that kind of masochist though, so he told Charlton to cancel everything for the rest of his day, and _Yes_, including the _convince NBC execs to let DJ Hansel host SNL_, because it was clearly some sort of malignant plan, born from a deep seated desire for revenge towards America as a whole, fueled by Nigel's british resentment.

Also, he hated dubstep, so.

Then, there were a few hours supposedly meant for writing a speech for some hotel heiress Eliot couldn't put a face to the name, that Margo recognised as an old rival of hers.

Which meant they spent a significant time bickering whether they should take the opportunity to make her majorly embarrass herself in front of the press or just cancel on her last minute so she'd have to use her own words and, according Margo, “cause a nation wide uproar bigger than the Game of Thrones season 8 finale”, which, uh, okay.

_Nerd_.

After passing that responsibility over to Todd, who would undoubtedly achieve a result even more disastrous than either of them ever could while actively trying, they lay out Nigel's schedule for the rest of the month.

In fact, there _is_ an Anniversary Dinner Date reservation at 9 PM the following night. If Eliot hadn't first seen this information on Quentin's phone he'd have assumed it was an anniversary with any other of Nigel's dalliances.

Anyhow, there it was, decorated on his calendar with an arrow through the heart emoji (the only heart emoji with a phallic element in it), to take place immediately after a two and a half hour gap to guss up for it, which... Eliot can't exactly comment on.

Considering that the prevailing theory at the moment, made stronger by each passing hour without any news from Nigel, was that he'd completely abandoned his whole life with full intent to leave Eliot in his place, he didn't actually expect Nigel to have even remembered about the date, much less have anything prepared for it.

And yet, when asked about it Charlton offered to bring over the present Nigel had ordered him to buy Quentin about 3 weeks ago. That is, some time _before_ he'd met his identical twin in a bar and immediately talked him into reenacting a modern real-life version of The Prince and The Pauper.

It turned out to be a golden Rolex, limited edition and a lot flashier than Eliot could ever picture Quentin wearing, a bit too obvious a choice, but one that definitely caused a mournful dent on the average wallet.

Immediately, Eliot thought of Quentin with a timorous look on his face as he was gifted it, thought of watches with leather straps or dark blue dials instead and how they would suit Quentin's style more, thought of Quentin smiling down at the gift, looking at Eliot thankfully with that meek little smile, stopped thinking about any of this altogether.

“Ugh, my father used to have one just like it.” Margo takes the box from Eliot's hands, inspecting it with a twitched upper lip of disgust. “Y'know, I always thought big ass watches were tacky. It's just dick measuring for rich white men.” and then she threw it on the bed.

Eliot smiles at her, because everything she did kindled deep bubbling affection in him. He could gather her up in his arms, spin her around and kiss the top of her head a million times forever every time she opened her beautifully foul sailor's mouth.

“Your father's white?” is what he said instead, like a little shit.

“No, you got what I said.”

“Margo, are you” gasps. “a _caucasian_?”

Her expression turns to stone.

“You got me.” she leans in. “My real name is Janet Pluchinsky.”

Eliot theatrically slaps a hand over his mouth. “Unbelievable. You think you _know_ a person.” she slaps his arm but there's a smile sneaking on her lips.

“I'm boutta kick your ass.” she says a little more impatient.

Eliot shrugs and turns away from her, picking the present back up and going to hide it in the closet. “You can't reach it.” he says, because he has a death wish or something.

“Don't make me ship you off to the motherland, Chapman.” she sniffs and points one yellow acrylic nail at him.

“Oh no, is it gonna become a thing? I don't ever wanna hear the name _Nigel_ ever again after we're done with this.”

“_When_ will you be done with this?” she asks the pertinent question, crossing her arms and sitting down on the bed.

Eliot sighs. “I guess, after tomorrow? I don't know I feel like it's a bit too shitty to disappear right on their anniversary day.”

“_Or_, maybe that's perfect and it would just drive home what a complete piece of shit your brother is.”

“He... might show up, you know.” he says uncertainly, Margo shrugs.

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“That watch is well over 11 grand. Did he buy it for nothing?”

Margo, who'd been sleeping on Egyptian cotton sheets since she'd been born, rolls her eyes. “That's like, nothing, my father used to buy my mom entire sets of jewelry for their anniversaries all the while still banging the pilates instructor.”

“... Maybe that's why he was buying really expensive gifts.”

She lols her head to the side, considering. “True, he was definitely compensating for all the sugar on the side, but does his boy even know he's getting cuckolded?”

“Quentin?”

“Yes.” Margo stands and beelines towards the desk, picking up a photo portrait of Nigel and Quentin. “That him?” she flips it over so Eliot can see, she doesn't wait for him to reply. “He's not that cute.”

“I... Did I even say that he was?”

“He _had_ to be. If you're going all soft on him.” she shrugs. “He's a grown ass man, you know, and he's been dealing with Nigel for longer than any of us_ and_ he's doing that in close quarters, I think he can handle—” but the rest of her sentence is gone forever.

Because the elevator doors open and Quentin himself shows up.

The first thing he does is drop his messenger bag on the table in the hallway. “Nigel?” he calls. “I'm home. Late as shit, because Jane made everyone—Oh.” his eyes find Eliot and, with him, Margo. “Hi..?”

“Quentin!” Eliot enters panic mode. “What time is it?” he looks at the clock on the wall, it's almost 5 PM. “That _is_ quite late, you said you'd be here by 3, didn't you?”

Quentin isn't as easily distracted as he hopes, his gaze wanders from Eliot's shirt, inexplicably half-buttoned, to sharply fix on Margo.

“Who is..?” he points at her, voice confused, but eyes too clever.

“This is Margo... Hanson, she's a client.” Eliot places one hand on her back, but Margo evades his touch, walking up to Quentin as if she was presenting herself on her own. The entire building trembles under her heels.

Quentin loses all attitude the second she draws near, he drops his hand and uselessly opens his mouth to speak, nothing comes out. Margo shrinks him under her glare.

“_Huh_.” finally she speaks, after a long while. “He _is_ that cute.” and with a final whip of her hair, Margo waves Eliot goodbye with a recently unburied natural cockiness and says: “_Au revoir_, Nigel, see you on Monday.”

The elevator door closes.

“She's... Uhm.” Quentin breaks the silence after a while.

Eliot smiles at him, ungluing his eyes from where Margo effectively abandoned him to the consequences of his own decisions, and brushes a few curls out of his eyes.

“A _lot_, I know. Just so you see what I deal with on the daily.” he huffs obnoxiously, but Quentin is still staring at him a little too knowing.

Maybe it's because they were just talking about Fen, and Nigel's utter inability to keep his dick in his pants that Quentin's look seems of complete disbelief. Without considering whether that would be helpful to their predicament or not, Eliot reaches for him, going for casually affectionate.

“You were talking about Jane, weren't you?”

Quentin blinks. “Oh, yeah, uh, Jane is still looking for Ricardo.”

The name is vaguely familiar. “Hm?”

“The baby duck.”

“The what?” _the fuck?_

Quentin shrugs, making his way to the living room, still a bit too quiet. He doesn't meet Eliot's eyes anymore nor tries to engage with him, just turns on the smart TV and scrolls through various streaming services.

It reminds Eliot too much of the previous night, before he'd gently coaxed Quentin out of his moody shell. It's unnerving. It's that same silence he can't stand.

“Did you eat yet? It's late.” Eliot says, out of nowhere.

Quentin twists his face like he'd been hurt and slaps his forehead. “No, I... Shit, I was gonna pick something up on the way, but I, forgot... Sorry, you... You wanted anything?” he points back and takes one step like he's about to leave.

Eliot steps down into the living room, shaking his hand in a negative gesture with a dazzling smile on his face.

“No, no. It's ideal actually. I was thinking of cooking tonight.”

Quentin's jaw drops.

“Cooking?” Eliot nods. “You?” Eliot nods nervously “I... You sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” he says too defensive. “Why, am I prohibited?”

“No! Just... I appreciate the _intention_, but I don't really feel like ice cubes and burnt eggs for dinner.” he says, surprisingly sardonic. The corner of his lips twitch up just a little.

_God._

Eliot scoffs. “I can cook.” he waves him off and walks to the kitchen, opening the fridge without looking back. There's mostly leftovers and vegetables, but not too dire an ingredients list. _This_ he can pull off.

“Since when?” Quentin is full-on grinning now.

Eliot shrugs. There's no good excuse for Nigel suddenly become a full-on _chef_ if he was terrible at it before. He gets some pasta from the pantry and gathers the vegetables on the balcony. Quentin is watching him with a look that manages to be both suspicious and amused.

“How do we feel about pasta tonight?”

Quentin opens his mouth, then closes it. He munches on his cheek then resigns himself to the fact that Eliot isn't answering his questions after all.

“Sure. I haven't eaten homemade since, uh, last month.”

“Good.” Eliot says and begins preparing.

Cooking is relaxing for Eliot. He likes having control over the kitchen, likes that he's good at it, and loves that he _looks_ good while doing it. He'd impressed more than a few boys with a impeccably made dish, and he was proud of it.

Quentin, for some reason, seemed immune to that.

Not completely, sometimes he'd see a hint of curiosity and amazement as Eliot diligently chopped vegetables and prepares the sauce, but those would be gone in a flash, replaced by another indescribable, a little wounded look.

Regardless, the smell is divine, to the point that Eliot starts to feel dizzy with it and realises that in all of the day's confusion, he'd forgotten to eat lunch. His stomach growls in a completely unsexy way and almost breaks the spell for a sec.

He plates the pasta primavera for them and serves it on the balcony itself. Quentin was already sitting on the chair in front of it, and he eyes the food so hungrily Eliot almost thinks he's gonna pounce it.

He waits for Eliot, first, to take a bite, suspicious on the idea of Nigel being able to cook at all which, honestly, their fridge was nearly empty, just _what_ were these people surviving on? Did they even do groceries? These rich people were eating their own money like salad or what?

Quentin takes a bite and actually moans at how good it is.

He catches himself and blushes pink, at least. “I... I'm feeling a little cheated, you never said you could cook..?”

Eliot shrugs, Quentin is looking at him like he's not gonna drop the subject so soon. “I was just too lazy to do it before.”

“Ah.” is all Quentin responds, he nods his head a few times then resumes eating.

He lets himself feel a little proud at how Quentin devours the whole thing, kinda reminiscent of Margo, only remembering later to grab a napkin and cover his face to hide his chewing. Eliot doesn't need the courtesy, Quentin looked cute while eating, and maybe he needed the courtesy after all.

He forces his eyes down to his plate and continues his own eating.

Doesn't think of how easily Quentin bought that excuse despite firmly believing Nigel was unable to cook just minutes ago. It says more about Nigel's character, really, that he could get away with an explanation as flimsy as that.

This is the part where he's supposed to be planning how to get Quentin not to care about his boyfriend disappearing on him the next day. Or the day after the next day, honestly, he and Margo didn't sort out any details and Eliot's brain power has been exhausted today, so he has no plan and barely an endgame.

He's been staring at his empty plate for a few minutes, thinking of soaking silently in Nigel's bathtub again, and Quentin has been watching him quizzically when he comes to.

“Finished?” he asks and retrieves their plates, buries himself in the sink to avoid Quentin's questioning look.

The wall clock is ticking just a bit past 7 PM. Quentin sighs and looks back at him.

“Aren't you going out tonight?” he asks.

Eliot pauses.

“Huh?” he turns his body just a little, just so he can see Quentin from the side.

Quentin shrugs, makes his way back to the living room.

“You know, night out? With your friends, as usual?” he sinks on the couch and picks up the remote control.

Eliot's hands are still in the sink.

Holy shit, that was his chance. He could say _Yes, sweetheart, I'll be right back_ then get Josh to bring him back to the Cottage and be... _done_ with this fucking nightmare. He wouldn't even need to pay for the fare.

They've been making a whole thing out of this when the opportunity was just gonna present itself just like that?

He turns fully back to Quentin, and then stops.

But... That's not gonna do anything, is it? The only reason he hasn't left yet was because of Quentin. And, well, not Fen anymore, but anybody else who knew Nigel. He needed a good reason, an excuse since the man himself didn't deem anyone worthy of one.

If he disappeared into the Cottage tonight they could even launch an investigation in there, couldn't they? Someone would, Quentin maybe, he seemed like he gave a shit about things, even if those things included his shitty, rarely present, cheating boyfriend. He didn't know, he didn't know.

And family, too. Nigel had to have one. Eliot presumed he had one.

The Chapmans themselves, whoever they were, could worry.

The logic conclusion, after all, was that if Nigel left his life and put Eliot in his place, it was because he didn't want anyone to know he was gone. That was the original plan, right? This was just an extension of his plans, right? A permanent one, if Nigel got his way. Maybe. If he wasn't being held captive in a basement in an ice tub without his kidneys, that is.

Karma.

He looks at Quentin, he can only see a bit of him from this angle, but has another flash of that mental picture from earlier.

Sitting alone at the dinner reservation. Waiting for a man who wasn't coming. A man who didn't deserve his worry. Worse, at home, waiting for Nigel to call or come back, but instead having no news, no clues of where he'd gone. Police sirens. Red and blues lights. _What happened to him? Where did he go? I was just with him? Is he okay?_ An orange bottle of antidepressants in the bathroom cabinet.

He turns the faucet off.

“Actually, I think I have a headache, I'm... staying in.”

“Oh,” Quentin leans forward like he's gonna stand up, but doesn't. “Is it the same thing from yesterday?” Eliot gestures noncommittal. “Ok.” he says, doesn't fret. Looks at Eliot like he doesn't know how to act.

Eliot doesn't have a clue either. “What... What are you gonna do?”

“Uhm.. I was gonna bingewatch Stranger Things.” waves the remote at Eliot. “Season 3.”

Ok, that was good. Quentin could entertain himself and Eliot could just go and lie face down on Nigel's bed until he passed out. He was so worn out, it was more or less the only thing he felt like doing, even if he'd had to do it at Nigel's place instead of home.

He looks at the TV, momentarily remembers Margo's plan to steal it earlier and misses her deeply. He could FaceTime her... Or text her, it would be better, less chances of Quentin overhearing them or being even more suspicious. If she was still home at this time.

Maybe if he just lied down... it would work?

Eliot's always been plagued by terrible insomnia, ever since he was little and couldn't yet understand why his father was shouting downstairs so late at night. It only got worse with time, after Logan, after Taylor, after Mike.

He's still looking at the TV. Maybe if he just watched some nonsense for a while it could finally convince his brain to hibernate for 10 hours or so. Maybe 15, he felt like a 15-hour beauty sleep. Margo would never let him sleep for 15 hours and neither would his creaky mattress.

Eliot sighs and lets himself drop on the other side of the couch.

“Mind if I watch it with you?”

Quentin frowns. “Did you... Have you ever even watched it before..?”

He hadn't, but Margo had yapped about it so much that he knew somewhat about it.

He was hoping to binge it with her, he just hadn't have the time to do it yet. Frankly, he's not really planning to pay attention anyway, as far as he'd known the show was entirely about straight people in the 70s and he no longer has the patience for that.

Quentin is watching him carefully, like he can't make sense of Eliot's intentions right now, but his face eventually smooths out. Eliot shrugs. “You can, huh, sum it up for me.” feels stupid when Quentin just gapes at him.

“Uh. It's, uhm. Basically, some kids find this girl with surperpowers and, there's a mystery in their town. And they... go on adventures.” he shrugs and looks back down to the remote, brushing his fingers over the buttons.

Is the whole night gonna be like that?

“Wow... Spare me the unnecessary details, will you?” he jokes, hoping to lighten up the mood.

Quentin answers that quick and harsh, like it was something that's been bothering him for a while and he just can't stop it from bursting out of him anymore.

“Aren't you gonna, like, get _mad_ at me if I _info dump_ the plot on you... as usual?” he looks up from the remote and fixes Eliot a stony stare.

Eliot feels so taken aback he considers just slithering shamefully to bed, but remembers that Quentin's not mad at _him_, he's mad at _Nigel_, because Eliot has seen Quentin info dump through an entire night and never once chastised him for it.

“I don't mind.” he shrugs. Quentin looks a bit disbelieving, a bit... hopeful?

Hopeful, it is. Because the second he gets the green light he crosses his legs under himself, turns to Eliot and immediately begins gesticulating with an ecstatic smile.

“Ok, so, it's 1983. We have this group of friends. They're kids, they're in the basement of one of their houses playing _Dungeons & Dragons_... You know what that is?”

Something nerdy.

“Uh... A game?”

“It's a table-top RPG game, it's... Like make-believe, whatever, it's kinda relevant for the rest of the season in a metaphorical way, but nevermind that.” he waves himself away a couple of times as he speaks. “So they are playing the game, and there's this monster in it, the Demogorgon.”

Eliot nods solemnly. “Like Medusa.”

“No,” he says, but smiles a bit. “it's made up for the show. It's this ugly monster, his faces opens up, a little like a flower, but like, gross. With teeth.”

“Oh.”

“It's only on season 1, you're not gonna see it.” he scoots a bit closer and continues explaining himself. “So, it's late at night and then Mike's mom—Mike's the main character—she calls them for dinner, tells them to all go home. So they all leave and then we're following Will as he goes home. It's important I promise,” he interrupts himself like Eliot was about to do it.

“No no, I'm keeping up.”

Quentin smiles and clasps his hands together excitedly. “He's on his bike, getting back home, and this monster is following him. It's the Demogorgon. Then the same night, Will disappears.”

“Was he eaten?”

“No, but that's a spoiler,” he shushes him. “So that's the biggest mystery this season, right? He went missing, his mom's freaking out over it. It's Winona Ryder, by the way.”

“Oh! That's nice.”

“Yeah, she's great in it. Anyway, so she gets the sheriff's help, and there's this subplot, where they are trying to figure out what's going on, and the government is up to something freaky about this and they are investigating. She figures out something's wrong with the magnets in the city. It's this really cool scene, the magnets in her fridge stop working and,”

“The magnets stop working?”

“It's a whole thing. Forget it, they're just _one_ subplot. It's, it's a really well done narrative, you know? Because they divided all the characters into these 3 subplots, and they are all solving this minor mysteries and as the story progresses these subplots all join each other so everyone's on the same page of the main mystery. Like,” he notices Eliot's confused expression, but notices he is _trying_ to keep up so he slows his speech. “Uhm, there's the kids. The main characters—the mom and the sheriff, they are side characters, and the kids, are these boys and their friend who went missing and they wanna find out where he is. So, they meet this girl, she has no name, but she's called Eleven. Like the number, her head is shaved, she can barely speak, she has telekinesis.”

“Jesus, why..?”

“She's a mystery too, she becomes friends with them, we also wanna find out what's going on. And there's also, uhm, Mike's sister, Nancy, and her boyfriend, this high school jock called Steve. Great hair. A bit of a douche in the beginning, but he gets better. Her friend goes missing, she has this other guy who is interested in her, Jonathan. It's a love triangle between her, Steve and Jonathan.”

“Ugh.” Eliot throws his head back, more for the drama of it.

“I know, right?” Quentin shifts a bit so he's more comfortable. Eliot has been leaning towards him so he leans back a bit more, and adjusts himself so he's sitting better. Quentin has an endearing smile on. “At the time, everyone online was like, _She should be with Steve he's hot!_, and _No he's an asshole she should be with Jonathan_, and_ Jonathan's a creep fuck him_! But, like, the obvious answer was the three of them should be together in a polyamorous relationship—”

“Obviously.” Eliot says playfully, but half agreeing. Quentin grins.

“_Obviously. _But they don't. It's the 80s, whatever. So, the monster, he's from this place called The Upside Down, which is their same town but like, all freaky and weird, everything is dark and blue, and super cold. And no one's there, there's some Silent Hill thing going on...”

“Silent Hill... The... videogame...”

“Yes.” _thank you, Margo_. “There's the movie too. But, anyway, uhm, where was I? Will's in The Upside Down. The monster is from there, they rescue him, but Eleven, she's called El too.”

“Oh, so _me_, but with telekinesis.”

Quentin bounces on his seat. His hands haven't stopped since he started explaining, Eliot can't tear his eyes away from him.

Quentin laughs, celestial. “And she's, uhm, she has these powers because of the government secret experiments, and they were the same people investigating The Upside Down, they have a portal and everything, so in the end Winona Ryder and the sheriff have to go in to rescue Will, the kids and the love triangle fight the monster. El uses her powers, she kills, it but then she explodes.”

Eliot gasps, genuinely surprised. “She _dies_?”

“No!”

“What kinda show is this?!”

“No, no, she's ok! Next season, she's back. And she gets, uhm, a whole punk makeover and meets other kids with superpowers. Like, ok, they get Will back, but something's weird with him because he was in The Upside Down for too long. The government is still up to something, and, and that's just season 1! On season 2—”

Keeping up with Quentin, especially when he gets going like this is a bit of a challenge. It's a bit more brain work than Eliot was expecting to use at this time of the night, but Quentin's captivating enough a storyteller that he manages.

He catalogs his little quirks and habits, more than once he wants to put a rebel lock of hair behind his ear, but doesn't. Doesn't move at all, other than nod at him entranced.

Quentin moves, and makes voices and bounces on his seat. He explains character names, then loses track of the story to talk about the character arcs, the metaphors and allegories, then jumps right back to introducing someone else entirely, supplies which characters Eliot is going to like, which ones he'll hate, which ones he _should_ hate, the ones he just doesn't understand why more people don't hate.

And then, finally, he catches his breath and falls back on the couch. He searches for the remote amidst the cushions and motions towards the TV.

“There's more stuff, but I'll explain it if you don't understand.”

Eliot laughs a little. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Quentin's smile twitches, he looks at Eliot and then at the TV, puzzled, but shakes his head off and starts the show. They are on episode 3, it seems, but Eliot doesn't mind. He's watched enough shows in the middle with Margo to be able to just figure out the drill as they go.

He'd kicked his shoes off some 20 minutes ago, and he didn't really plan to crease Nigel's entire outfit, but, fuck Nigel, Eliot just sinks himself deeper into the sofa, folds his legs and arms into himself. Quentin sees it and probably thinks he's cold, because he says:

“Hold up! There's a...” and he produces a blanket out of nowhere. By the _Fillory & Further_ imagery in it, it belongs to Quentin himself.

He spreads it in the air and lays it over their bodies, Quentin scoots just a bit closer to him, not enough to touch, but enough so they're both warm.

Eliot flushes and just folds deeper into himself.

_God, I hope he doesn't get the wrong idea about this_.

But, Quentin doesn't seem to plan to Netflix and Chill, he's too engrossed in the show, and when he moves is to gesticulate while providing information and trivia over a character, place or another.

“—Oh, they have this documentary, showing the behind the scenes on Netflix too. It's really cool, the directors, that's what they said about her anyway, hold up.” and he continues watching, like he hadn't interrupted it himself.

It's... It's adorable. It truly is.

Eliot wonders if Quentin gives lectures like this. So passionate over the things he's interested in, it's... heartwarming. There aren't many adults that are still filled with wonder and magic. Also, he's pretty cute so.

Nigel doesn't know what he has.

The watch three and a half episodes before the amount of trivia and commentary per minute dies down and Eliot finally turns to see Quentin snoring peacefully, clearly tired after classes and unused to the nightly hours like Eliot is, head leaned on the cushion, hair a mess and body snuggled up on himself.

Eliot doesn't care about the show that much, he's sure the teenagers in sailor outfits and the two kids are gonna come out of the underground Russian headquarters just fine in an episode or two, so he turns off the TV.

The living room gets dark, the clock on the wall says it's almost 10 PM, halfway through a shift at The Cottage, so he sighs and resigns himself to another sleepless night.

But first, he sees Quentin, sound asleep and picks him up, and lays him down on his side of the bed.

Eliot has time to go to the bathroom, wash his face, change into pajamas and come back and Quentin is still asleep, barely moved.

He hits the lights and goes lie down as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got very long, but in compensation I think the next one will be much shorter. I don't have anything of it ready yet, so, please wait it might take me a week or a month, idk.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not totally happy with the writing. Tbh, I think I truly forgot how to write something that doesn't seem like an overtly wordy tangled mess, but I will try to get better next chapters, I promise.


End file.
